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GARGOYLES 


GARGOYLES 


By 
BEN    HECHT 


BONI  AND  LIVERIGHT 
Publishers  New  York 


Copyright,  1922,  by 
Boni  and  Liveright,  Inc. 
New  York 


In  compliance  with  current  copyright 

law,  U.C.  Library  Bindery  produced 

this  replacement  volume  on  paper 

that  meets  the  ANSI  Standard  Z39.48- 

1984  to  replace  the  irreparably 

deteriorated  original. 

1989 


To  My  Friend 

the 
Chicago  Daily  News 


GARGOYLES 

i 

The  calendars  said — 1900.  It  was  growing  warm. 
George  Cornelius  Basine  emerged  from  Madam  Min- 
nie's house  of  ill  fame  at  five  o'clock  on  a  Sabbath 
May  morning.  He  was  twenty-five  years  old,  neatly 
dressed,  a  bit  unshaven  and  whistling  valiantly, 
"Won't  you  come  home,  Bill  Bailey,  won't  you  come 
home?" 

Considering  the  high  estate  which  was  to  be  his, 
as  the  estimable  Senator  Basine,  the  introduction  sa- 
vors of  malice.  But,  it  must  be  remembered,  this  was 
twenty-two  years  ago,  and  moreover,  in  a  day  before 
the  forces  of  decency  had  triumphed.  The  soul  of  man 
was  still  unregenerate.  Prostitutes,  saloons,  hell-holes 
still  flourished  unchallenged  in  the  city's  heart.  And 
Basine  even  at  twenty-five  was  not  one  of  those  ag- 
gravating anomalies  who  pride  themselves  upon  be- 
ing ahead  of  their  time;  or  behind  their  time.  Bas- 
ine was  of  his  time. 

And  on  this  day  which  witnessed  him  whistling  on 
the  doorstep  of  Madam  Minnie's,  the  Devil  was  still 
a  gentlemen,  albeit  a  gentleman  in  bad  standing. 
But,  being  a  gentleman,  he  was  tolerated.  Tradition, 
in  a  manner,  still  clothed  him  in  the  guise  of  a  Rabe- 
laisian clown,  high  born  but  fallen.  He  walked 
abroad  in  his  true  character,  flaunting  his  red  tights, 
his  cloven  hoof,  his  spiked  tail  and  his  mysterious 
horns.  A  Mid- Victorian  Devil  innocent  of  further 
disguise,  his  face  still  undisfigured  by  the  Kaiser's 


g  GARGOYLES 

mustachio  or  the  Bolshevist's  whiskers.  A  naive,  unc- 
tuous lout  of  a  Devil  with  straightforward  Tempter's 
proclivities.  An  antagonist  not  for  Dr.  Wilsons  and 
M.  Clemenceaus  and  the  Societies  for  the  Spread  of 
True  Americanization,  but  an  unpolitical,  highly  or- 
thodox, leering,  pitchfork-brandishing  vis  a  vis  for 
simple  men  of  God.  In  short,  the  Devil  was  still  a 
Devil  and  not  a  Complex. 

It  was  growing  warm  and  the  calendars  said — a 
new  century  ...  a  new  century.  And  the  great  men 
of  the  day  pointed  with  stern,  pregnant  fingers  at  the 
calendars  and  proclaimed — a  new  century  ...  a  new 
century. 

Beautiful  phrase.  The  soul  of  man,  in  its  struggle 
toward  God  knows  what,  paused  elatedly  to  contem- 
plate the  new  milestone.  Elated  as  all  youth  is  elated 
for  no  other  reason  than  that  there  is  a  tomorrow, 
a  tomorrow  of  unknown  and  multiple  milestones. 
Elated  with  the  knowledge  of  progress — that  sage 
and  flattering  word  by  which  the  soul  of  man  explains 
the  baffling  phenomenon  of  its  survival. 

The  great  men  of  the  day  stood  staring  through 
half-closed  eyes  at  the  calendars.  To  anticipate  by 
a  single  day!  But  the  future  no  less  than  the  past 
remains  a  current  mystery.  And  the  great  men — 
the  prophets — confined  themselves  with  stentorian 
caution  to  the  prophecy — a  new  century  has  dawned. 

Basine,  whistling  and  waiting  for  his  companion  to 
emerge  on  Madam  Minnie's  doorstep,  regarded  the 
scene  about  him  with  the  hardened  moral  indiffer- 
ence of  youth.  It  was  growing  warm.  The  May  sun 
was  striding,  an  incongruous,  provincial  virgin, 
through  a  litter  of  blowzy  streets.  Under  its  mocking 


GARGOYLES  9 

light  the  rows  of  bawdy-houses  and  saloons  suffered 
an  architectural  collapse.  Walls,  windows,  roofs  and 
chimneys  leered  tiredly  at  each  other.  The  district 
seemed  indeed  an  illustration  for  a  parable  of  Vice 
and  Virtue  drawn  by  the  venomously  partial  pen 
of  some  unusually  half-witted  cleric— dirty- faced 
brothels,  tousled  cafe  signs,  bleery  sidewalks,  toothless 
storefronts  all  cowering  before  the  rebuke  of  God's 
sun. 

A  few  mysterious  solitaries  lent  a  vague  life  to  the 
scene.  The  figure  of  a  drunk,  unchastened,  zigzagg- 
ing humorously  down  the  pavement  like  some  noc- 
turnal clown  prowling  after  a  vanished  Bacchanal.  A 
hastily  dressed  prostitute  carrying  her  night's  earn- 
ings as  an  offering  to  early  devotion.  A  few  un- 
seasoned revellers  overcome  with  a  nostalgia  for 
clean  bathrooms  and  Sunday  morning  waffles  at  the 
family  board,  sleepily  fleeing  the  scenes  of  their 
carouse. 

All  this  formed  no  part  of  the  preoccupations  of 
the  whistling  one.  He  was  waiting  for  his  companion 
and  for  the  fifteenth  time  the  tune  of  "Bill  Bailey" 
came  softly  from  his  lips.  The  companion  appeared, 
a  crestfallen  young  man  of  twenty-three,  Hugh  Kee- 
gan  by  name.  An  idiotic  wistfulness  marked  the  blond 
vacuity  of  his  face.  They  said  nothing  and  walked 
to  the  street  car  track. 

Here  they  must  wait.  There  was  no  car  in  sight. 
Basine  employed  the  wait,  jumping  out  from  the 
curbing  and  peering  with  a  great  show  of  interest 
down  the  deserted  tracks.  The  night's  dissipation  had 
left  him  perversely  elate.  His  vanity  demanded  that 
he  confound  the  scenes  of  his  recent  moral  collapse 


10  GARGOYLES 

by  exhibitions  of  undiminished  vigor  of  body  and 
gayety  of  mind.  So  he  capered  back  and  forth 
between  the  curb  and  the  deserted  tracks,  ostenta- 
tiously unbuttoning  his  coat  to  the  chill  of  the  dawn 
and  addressing  brisk,  cheerful  sallies  to  his  penitent 
friend. 

It  was  this  way  with  Basine.  He  had  spent  the 
night  in  sin.  Now  he  must  act  as  if  he  had  not  spent 
the  night  in  sin.  It  was  a  matter  of  deceiving  his  con- 
science, and  Basine's  conscience  did  not  live  in  Basine. 
It  was,  to  the  contrary,  a  mysterious  external  force, 
something  quite  outside  him. 

He  eyed  the  virtuous  hallalujahs  of  the  sunrise 
with  a  somewhat  over-emphasized  aplomb.  Dimly  he 
felt  that  a  God  was  articulating  in  dawns  and  sun- 
beams. As  long  as  he  had  continued  his  whistling, 
these  facts  had  remained  concealed.  But  now  he  had 
grown  tired  of  uBill  Bailey"  and  at  once  God,  peer- 
ing out  of  his  beautiful  rosy  heaven  was  saying, 
"Shame  on  you."  Everything  seemed  to  be  waiting  to 
repeat  this  banal  reproof. 

This  was  the  conscience  of  George  Basine — a  re- 
proof that  came  from  without.  He  felt  an  inclina- 
tion to  defiance  before  this  reproof.  .  .  He  was 
young  and  given  to  evil.  This  was  only  natural,  con- 
sidering the  time  in  which  he  lived  and  the  biological 
impulses  of  youth. 

But  to  do  evil  was  one  thing.  To  defend  it  after  it 
was  done  was  another.  Thus  Basine,  having  sinned 
lustily  through  the  night,  avoided  the  more  unspeak- 
able sin  of  defending  his  action.  The  reproof  arrived, 
he  faced  it  with  candor  and  intelligence,  prepared  to 
admit  that  he  had  done  wrong. 


GARGOYLES  11 

He  did  not  want  God  mumbling  around  inside  him 
as  was  the  case  with  his  friend  Keegan.  God  mum- 
bled around  inside  of  Keegan  and  made  him  feel  like 
the  devil.  But  Basine — there  was  no  occasion  for  God 
to  argue  His  point.  He,  Basine,  surrendered  grace- 
fully and  forthwith.  That  was  the  way  to  handle 
situations  of  the  soul. 

To  Basine,  situations  of  the  soul  were  a  species  of 
external  discomforts  he  identified  as  God.  They  were 
the  regulations  and  taboos  of  a  civilization  to  which 
he  was  prepared  at  all  times  to  submit,  providing  such 
submission  did  not  compromise  him.  One  got  rid  of. 
taboos  by  looking  them  squarely  in  the  eye  and  sim- 
ulating respect  or  remorse.  Taboos  were  good  man- 
ners. One  had  to  be  polite  to  good  manners.  Basine 
laughed,  not  defiantly.  He  had  already  made  his 
apologies  to  the  dawn.  The  dawn  was  God's  good 
manners.  It  entered  the  world  as  precisely  and  as  per- 
fectly as  the  saintly  wife  of  a  great  financier  might 
enter  her  grandmother's  drawing  room. 

Waiting  beside  the  car  track,  Basine  was  already  a 
reformed  and  forgiven  man.  The  sun  was  like  a 
huge  Salvation  Army  marching  through  the  highways 
of  Evil,  beating  great  drums  and  singing,  uAre  you 
washed,  are  you  washed  in  the  Blood  of  the  Lamb?" 
He  was  glad  of  it.  He  was  glad  to  be  once  more  a 
part  of  a  virtuous  world,  a  citizen  of  an  ideal  repub- 
lic given  to  the  great  causes  of  progress. 

This  adjustment  completed,  memories  of  the  night 
came  to  him  as  they  waited  for  the  car.  These  mem- 
ories failed,  naturally,  to  conflict  with  his  character 
as  a  citizen  of  virtue.  For  they  were  memories  which 
he  was  prepared  at  any  moment  to  repudiate  and  de- 


12  GARGOYLES 

nounce.      Thus   prepared   he   could  of   course   enjoy 
them. 

The  memories  brought  an  elation,  the  elation  which 
usually  fills  the  healthy  male  of  twenty-five  upon  dis- 
covering or  rediscovering  that  the  Devil  is  as  alluring 
as  he  is  painted  and  that  the  wages  of  sin  are  neither 
death  nor  disillusion.  He  had  enjoyed  himself.  Sin 
was  wrong.  But  if  one  knew  it  was  wrong  one  could 
go  ahead  and  enjoy  it.  The  great  thing  was  to  know 
it  was  wrong,  to  admit  it  frankly  and  share  in  the 
general  indignation  of  it  and  not  to  go  around  like 
a  vicious-minded  freak  defending  it,  like  some  people 
he  knew  were  in  the  habit  of  doing. 

Thus  on  this  May  morning  Basine  was  able  to 
grasp  the  enormity  of  his  offense  and  to  apologize 
whole-heartedly  for  its  commission  and  simultane- 
ously to  enjoy  the  memory  of  it.  He  had  come  away 
from  Madam  Minnie's  with  an  egoistic  impression 
of  his  prowess  and  with  the  self-satisfaction  which 
comes  of  the  knowledge  of  having  cheated  the  devil 
out  of  his  due  by  his  careful  method.  He  remembered 
with  a  warmth  in  his  throat  as  if  he  were  recalling 
something  beautiful  how  the  creature  had  looked  at 
the  first  moment  she  stood  before  him. 

He  had  spent  the  earlier  part  of  the  night  getting 
creditably  drunk.  Lured  into  a  brothel  by  a  woman 
with  a  hard,  childish  face,  he  had  devoted  himself  for 
several  hours  to  the  despicable  business  of  sin.  The 
sordid  make-believe  of  passion  had  pleased  him  vast- 
ly. He  had  managed  in  fact  to  achieve  an  observation 
on  life.  As  the  night  waned  he  had  grown  philoso- 
phical and  thought,  how  with  good  women  one  began 
with  personal  talk,  with  an  exchange  of  confidences. 


GARGOYLES  13 

One  began  with  emotions,  with  gentle  lacerations, 
wistfulness,  sadness.  And  one  progressed  from  these 
toward  the  intimacy  of  physical  contact.  But  with 
bad  women  one  began  with  the  intimacy  of  physical 
contact.  Only  the  abrupt  matter-of-fact  tone  of  the 
thing  robbed  the  contact  of  all  intimacy.  And  one 
progressed  from  this  contact  toward  a  wistfulness,  a 
gentle  shyness  and  finally  an  exchange  of  confidences 
and  personal  talk.  This  last  contained  in  it  the  thrill 
of  intimacy.  A  good  woman  surrendered  her  body 
and  inspired  thereby  a  sense  of  possession.  A  bad 
woman  surrendered  the  secret  of  her  birthplace  and 
of  her  real  name  and  inspired  a  similar  sense.  There 
was  also  obvious  the  fact  that  the  same  sense  of  dra- 
matic coquetry,  idealism,  modesty  or  whatever  it  was 
that  induced  the  good  woman  to  withhold  her  body  in- 
duced the  bad  woman  to  withhold  her  confidence. 

Under  the  influence  of  this  knowledge,  Basine  had 
pursued  the  usual  tactics  of  the  predatory  male  and, 
as  a  fillip  to  the  unimaginative  excitements  of  the 
night,  obtained  from  his  accomplice  in  sin  the  story 
of  her  life. 

"The  mystery  of  a  bad  woman  is  that  she  was  once 
virtuous,"  he  thought  as  he  fell  asleep.  "Just  as  the 
mystery  of  a  virtuous  woman  is  that  she  could  be 
bad."  ' 

An  hour  later  he  awoke  and  with  a  thrill  of  quix- 
otic honesty  placed  five  dollars  in  the  moist  hand  of  the 
sleeping  houri,  gathered  his  friend  Keegan  out  of  an 
adjoining  room  and  emerged  once  more  into  the 
world  with  a  clear  head,  a  body  full  of  elated  mem- 
ories and  a  laudable  conviction  that  he  had  done 
wrong,  but  that  what  happened  yesterday  was  not  a 


14  GARGOYLES 

part  of  today  and  that  a  man  can  grant  himself  ab- 
solution from  sin  as  easily  as  he  can  lay  aside  virtue. 

As  for  Keegan,  he  stared  with  mild  eyes  at  the 
dawn,  at  the  beggarly  alleys  and  the  negro  porter 
dreamily  sweeping  cigar  stubs  out  of  a  lopsided  door- 
way. He  listened  patiently  to  his  friend's  enthusi- 
asms. To  Keegan  there  was  something  inexplicable 
about  Basine's  morning-after  pose.  Keegan  had  not 
found  a  place  for  God.  Platitudes  were  not  a  back- 
ground against  which  he  might  posture  to  his  conven- 
ience. Instead  they  were  terrible  intimates.  They 
operated  his  thought  for  him. 

After  committing  a  sin  one  should  be  repentent. 
The  commission  of  sin  was,  of  course,  an  outrage. 
But  somehow  the  platitudes  did  not  quite  reach  into 
the  bedroom  of  evil.  They  remained  hovering  out- 
side the  door  marking  time,  as  it  were,  and  whispering 
through  the  keyhole,  "just  wait  .  .  .  just  wait  .  .  ." 

And  as  soon  as  he  had  emerged  from  the  room, 
in  fact  even  before  that,  they  had  taken  possession 
of  him  again.  They  demanded  now  repentance, 
thorough  repentance  which  included  thorough  repudi- 
ation of  all  joyous  memories,  all  pleasurable  mo- 
ments. And  Keegan,  surrendering  himself  as  a  matter 
of  necessity  to  their  demands  presented  the  exterior 
of  a  sorrowing  victim  to  the  dawn.  He  offered  a  nod 
or  a  surprised  stare  as  punctuation  for  his  friend's 
discourse,  chewing  the  while  on  an  unsuccessfully 
lighted  cigar  which  tasted  sour. 

"There  was  something  different  about  her  from 
the  usual  girl  of  that  kind,"  Basine  was  explaining. 
"Wouldn't  talk  for  a  while  but  finally  got  confidential 
and  began  to  cry  a  bit." 


GARGOYLES  15 

This  was  a  lie,  reflecting  credit,  however,  on  the 
youth's  dramatic  sense  and  vanity.  The  knowledge 
that  the  creature  under  discussion  had  been  actually 
no  different  from  the  six  other  ladies  of  her  profes- 
sion with  whom  he  had  experienced  moral  collapses 
since  leaving  the  university  in  no  way  interfered  with 
his  opinion  of  the  recent  episode. 

It  was  his  opinion  that  things  he  touched  were 
somehow  different  from  things  other  young  men  dal- 
lied with;  that  events  which  befell  him  were  of  a 
certain  mysterious  fiber  lacking  in  the  events  which 
befell  others.  Thus  he  was  reduced  to  the  necessity 
of  continual  lying  in  order  to  vindicate  this  convic- 
tion, more  powerful  than  reality.  Lying  to  himself 
as  much  as  to  anyone  else.  By  his  lies  Basine  accom- 
plished the  dual  purpose  of  adjusting  inferior  inci- 
dents to  the  superiority  of  his  nature  and  of  impres- 
sing this  superiority  upon  his  friends.  A  way  of  re- 
writing life  so  as  to  fit  himself  with  the  heroic  part, 
as  yet  denied  him  in  the  manuscript  and  which  he  sin- 
cerely felt  was  his  due. 

"Yes,  she  cried  a  bit.   They  usually  do,  you  know." 

Keegan  was  innocent  of  this  phenomenon,  but  nod- 
ded. He  felt  mysteriously  saddened  by  the  fact  that 
they  never  wept  for  him.  Life  denied  him  many 
things.  The  creature  he  had  spent  the  night  with  had 
treated  him  somewhat  brutally.  She  had  laughed 
several  times.  He  sought,  however,  to  make  up  for 
the  indifference  with  which  he  felt  himself  treated  by 
heightening  his  contempt  for  her  as  a  sinner.  This 
necessitated  an  increase  of  his  contempt  for  himself 
as  having  been  a  partner  in  evil.  But  that  was  a  spir- 
itual gesture  made  bearable  by  the  wave  of  remorse 


16  GARGOYLES 

it  aroused  and  by  the  knowledge  that  remorse  was  a 
laudable  emotion.  Nevertheless,  despite  the  remorse 
and  the  rehabilitation  it  offered  his  vanity,  he  con- 
tinued to  feel — life  denied  him  many  things. 

Basine  continued,  "You  could  take  a  girl  like  that 
and  make  something  of  her.  Give  her  a  month."  By 
which  he  meant  give  George  Cornelius  Basine  a  month 
and  see  the  miracle  he  would  work. 

Keegan  sighed.  He  admired  George,  and  his  ad- 
miration of  others  always  depressed  him.  He  was  in- 
telligent enough  to  know  that  he  admired  things  he 
lacked.  And  yet,  he  assured  himself,  he  would  despise 
the  things  in  himself  that  he  admired  in  others.  There- 
fore, it  was  very  probable  that  he  despised  them  in 
others,  or  would  at  some  later  day,  unless  he  managed 
to  conceal  the  fact  or  lose  track  of  it  in  the  confus- 
ion of  platitudes  which  served  him  for  a  brain.  He 
looked  enviously  at  his  friend,  before  whom  hardened 
trollops  dissolved  in  tears. 

"She's  only  been  in  the  game  a  little  while,  you 
know,  Hugh.  A  convent  girl,  too.  She  told  me  her 
story.  How  she  got  started,  you  know.  A  love  affair 
with  a  Spaniard.  A  highly  connected  fellow.'1 

Basine  prattled  on,  improvising  a  melodrama  of 
virtue  led  astray,  editing  the  vaguely  worded  generali- 
ties of  the  creature  he  had  left  asleep.  Eventually 
he  tired  of  the  game  and  announced  abruptly. 

"Not  a  car  in  sight.  What  do  you  say  we  walk, 
Hugh?" 

The  idea  of  walking  four  miles  home  after  a  wild 
night  engaged  his  vanity.  Things  by  which  he  proved 
the  dubious  superiority  of  his  body  pleased  him. 

"I  think  I'll  run  along,"  said  Keegan. 


GARGOYLES  17 

"Nothing  doing,  Hughie.  You  come  with  me. 
We'll  have  breakfast  at  my  house." 

Keegan  frowned.  There  were  two  sisters  and  a 
mother  in  Basine's  home. 

"I  can't." 

"Why  not?" 

"Oh,  because." 

Basine  persisted,  gently  malicious.  It  amused  him 
to  inconvenience  his  friend's  scruples.  It  also  gave 
him  a  feeling  of  moral  supremacy.  Keegan  was 
ashamed  to  go  to  his  home  with  him.  He  pitied  him 
for  this  and  yet  enjoyed  the  fact.  It  was  because 
Keegan  didn't  feel  sure  of  himself,  of  his  being  a  man 
of  virtue.  And  he,  Basine,  did.  There  was  no 
question  about  it  in  his  mind. 

"Ashamed?"  he  asked  with  a  smile. 

"No,"  Keegan  grunted. 

"Well,  you  haven't  done  anything  worse  than  me." 
by  which  he  meant  "We  do  things  differently  and  I 
am  above  things  that  knock  you  out." 

Keegan  stared  at  his  friend  furtively.  There  were 
things  inexplicable  in  George  Basine.  He  must  ad- 
mire them.  There  was  nothing  inexplicable  in  him- 
self. 

He  hesitated  about  going,  however.  A  combin- 
ation of  platitudes  was  involved.  He  felt  the  neces- 
sity of  repentance.  And  then  he  felt  the  necessity  of 
hiding  his  shame.  And  finally  platitude  cautioned  him 
indignantly  against  affronting  three  good  women — a 
mother  and  two  daughters — with  the  presence  of 
one  lately  come  from  the  flesh  pots  of  Satan.  This 
was  a  superior  platitude  because  it  came  also  under 
the  index  of  good  manners. 


18  GARGOYLES 

But  Basine,  taking  him  by  the  elbow,  swept  him 
along,  platitudes  and  all.  An  inexplicable  Basine 
whom  he  admired,  envied,  despised,  and  who  was  his 
best  friend  and  his  model.  They  walked  together, 
Basine  briskly  to  hide  the  sudden  heaviness  of  his 
legs;  Keegan  yielding  to  the  less  pronounced  physical 
drain  he  had  undergone  and  falling  into  a  weary,  pro- 
testing gait. 


The  death  of  Howard  Basine  had  precipitated  a 
creditable  outburst  of  grief  on  the  part  of  his  widow 
and  two  daughters.  The  event  had  brought  his  son 
George  home  from  college. 

They  had  shared  a  bed  for  twenty-six  years, 
Basine  pere  and  Basine  mere,  achieving  an  utter  disre- 
gard of  each  other  which  both  took  pride  in  identify- 
ing as  domestic  happiness.  In  their  youth  love  had 
brought  them  together  while  comparative  strangers. 
And  after  twenty-six  years  death  had  parted  them 
still  strangers.  But  now  complete  and  total  strangers 
— Siamese  twins  who  had  never  been  introduced  to 
each  other. 

Each  had  grown  old  by  the  side  of  the  other,  sub- 
scribing to  the  same  thoughts,  worries,  ambitions.  It 
was  as  if  a  thin  shell  had  grown  around  each  of  them. 
This  shell  was  their  home,  their  mutual  interest  in 
bank  balances,  diversions  and  tomorrows.  It  was  the 
product  of  their  practical  energies — their  standing  in 
the  eyes  of  their  friends,  their  success  and  their  sol- 
idity as  a  social  unit.  It  was  their  pride  in  new  rugs, 
in  invitations  to  functions,  in  their  children. 

There  were  two  shells.    One  was  Basine  pere.    One 


GARGOYLES  19 

was  Basine  mere.  For  twenty-six  years  these  two 
shells  cohabited  together.  But  inside  each  of  them 
there  had  been  a  world  of  things  that  had  never  con- 
nected and  that  remained  forever  part  of  a  mutually 
preserved  secret.  Little  daydreams,  absurdities,  the 
swaggering,  pensive,  impractical  rigmarole  of 
thought-life  to  which  the  world  of  reality — the  shell- 
world — had  remained  almost  to  the  last  no  more 
than  a  vaguely  sensed  exterior. 

Each  of  them  had  lived  almost  continually  apart 
from  this  shell.  They  had  given  but  a  fraction  of 
their  energies  toward  its  creation.  It  had  required 
only  a  little  part  of  themselves  to  become  two  placid- 
ly successful  conventionally  happy  people  with  a  home 
and  family.  The  rest  of  themselves  they  had  allowed 
to  evaporate. 

A  pleasing  process — evaporation.  Dreams,  am- 
bitions, longings — all  these  had  evaporated  slowly  and 
secretively  during  the  twenty-six  years,  vanished  into 
thin  air.  And  each  had  been  preoccupied  with  this 
process  of  evaporation.  It  had  been  their  real  life — 
the  life  which  diverted  them  and  which  they  mutually 
concealed  from  each  other  as  they  sat  together  read- 
ing of  evenings,  or  rode  in  cars  or  waited  in  offices 
or  lay  in  bed. 

Here  in  this  real  life  were  success  and  beauty  and 
marvelous  activities.  Here  Basine  pere  planned  Her- 
culean enterprise  and  triumphed  with  magnificent 
gestures,  became  a  leader  of  finance,  of  armies;  be- 
came a  lover  of  queens  and  odalisques.  Caressing 
from  day  to  day  phantasms  which  had  no  existence, 
it  was  in  them  that  he  chiefly  existed.  He  confined 
himself  not  only  to  illusions  of  grandeur.  There  were 


20  GARGOYLES 

also  little  things,  charming  minor  victories  which  de- 
lighted his  ego  almost  as  much  as  the  greater  ones. 
He  was  able  to  trick  out  the  minor  victories  with  the 
illusion  of  reality.  They  were  things  that  might 
happen,  that  one  could  dream  about  almost  as  actually 
happening.  Things  that  he  fancied  people  might  be 
saying  about  him;  admissions  that  he  fancied  people 
might  make  to  him;  dreams  that  he  fancied  he  in- 
spired in  women  who  passed  him  and  whom  he  never 
saw  again. 

This  illusory  existence  preoccupying  Basine  had 
fitted  him  ideally  for  the  companionship  of  orderly, 
placid-minded  folk  preoccupied  like  himself  with  simi- 
lar processes  of  evaporation.  These  folk  were  his 
friends  with  whom  he  went  to  the  theater,  played 
cards,  transacted  business,  discussed  issues.  They 
were  known  as  normal,  practical  persons.  The  vast, 
illusory  worlds  in  which  they  lived  during  the  greater 
part  of  their  hours  in  no  way  encroached  upon  the 
realities  of  their  day. 

They  were  proud  of  having  a  grip  on  themselves, 
by  which  they  meant  of  being  able  to  allow  their 
energies  to  evaporate  secretively  instead  of  feeling  in- 
spired to  harness  them  to  realities  and  run  the  risk 
of  being  hoisted  body  and  soul  out  of  their  shells  into 
a  maelstrom  of  uncertainties  and  hullabaloos.  In 
order  to  rationalize  the  disparity  between  their  actual 
estates  and  the  fantastic  estates  of  their  illusory 
lives,  they  devoted  a  part  of  their  energies  to  the 
practical  business  of  glorifying  their  shells.  They 
subscribed  with  indignation,  sometimes  with  fanati- 
cism, to  all  social,  spiritual  and  political  ideas  which 
had  for  their  objective  the  glorification  of  their  shells. 


GARGOYLES  21 

They  became  champions  of  systems  of  thought  and 
conduct  which  excused  on  one  hand  and  deified  on  the 
other  their  devitalized  modes  of  existence. 

In  fact  as  they  grew  older  they  developed  a  curi- 
ous egoism  which  took  the  form  of  a  pride  in  their 
suppressions.  They  thought  of  themselves  as  men 
who  had  achieved  a  superior  sanity.  This  sanity  lay 
in  being  able  to  recognize  the  real  from  the  unreal. 
The  real  was  their  shell.  The  unreal  consisted  of  the 
fantasies  produced  by  the  process  of  evaporation. 
This  sanity,  too,  enabled  them  to  regard  their  imagin- 
ings and  dreamings  with  an  amused  condescension 
and  to  mature  into  unruffled  effigies — pratical,  hard- 
headed  business  men. 

The  evaporation,  however,  influenced  them  in  one 
vital  respect.  It  effected  what  they  called  their  taste 
in  the  arts.  They  desired  things  they  read  or  listened 
to  in  the  theater  to  be  authentic  interpretations  not 
of  the  realities  about  them  but  of  the  illusions  in 
which  they  secretly  exhausted  themselves.  They  de- 
sired the  heroes  and  heroines  of  literature  and  drama 
to  be  like  the  creatures  and  excitements  of  the  soap- 
bubble  worlds  bursting  conveniently  about  their  hard 
heads.  And  so  in  their  reading  and  theater  going 
they  enjoyed  only  those  things  which  afforded  a  few 
hours  of  vicarious  reality  to  the  grotesqueries,  to  the 
fairy  tale  expansions  of  their  departing  dreams. 

During  the  last  years  of  his  life  Basine  had  experi- 
enced the  fullest  rewards  of  a  virtuous,  practical  life. 
At  fifty  he  had  become  empty.  The  rigmarole  of 
day  dreams  grew  vaguer  and  finally  ceased.  He  had 
become  bored  with  his  grandiose  and  illusory  selves. 
Don  Juan,  Napoleon,  Croesus,  no  longer  wore  the 


22  GARGOYLES 

features  of  Basine.  There  was  no  longer  any  thrill  in 
idly  decorating  his  tomorrows  with  kaleidscopic  make- 
believes. 

There  was  no  great  tragedy  in  this.  He  was  bored 
with  his  imagination  because  he  had  run  through  the 
repertoire  of  his  fancies  too  often  and  so,  slowly,  his 
days  grew  more  and  more  void  of  unrealities.  Slowly 
also  he  turned  to  the  tangible  things  around  him.  He 
contemplated  proudly  the  details  of  his  shell.  It  was 
a  comforting  shell.  It  fitted  him  snugly.  It  con- 
sisted of  his  friends,  his  home,  his  children,  his  bor- 
rowed ideas,  his  wife. 

No  outward  change  was  to  be  noticed  in  Basine  pere 
when  this  happened.  There  was  nothing  to  say  that 
the  process  of  evaporation  had  ended  and  that  there 
was  left  an  animate  husk  called  Howard  Basine;  a 
husk  that  did  not  mourn  at  the  knowledge  of  its  emp- 
tiness but  that  accepted  instead  with  piety  and  grati- 
tude the  presence  of  other  husks,  pleased  and  warmed 
to  move  among  their  empty  companionships. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  Basine  proudly  felt  him- 
self a  worthwhile  member  of  society  and  grew  to  smile 
with  tolerant  disdain  upon  all  persons  who  busied 
themselves  with  the  illusions  he  had  overcome  by  the 
simple  process  of  denying  them  life.  He  called  them 
fools,  scoundrels,  lunatics  and  dreamers  and  he  agreed 
with  his  friends  that  they  were  creatures  engaged  in 
filling  the  world  with  discomfort  and  error.  His  dis- 
like for  them  did  not  make  him  unhappy  for  he  was 
content  in  the  flattering  knowledge  that  most  people, 
everybody  he  knew  and  whose'  opinion  he  valued, 
were  like  himself.  His  thoughts  were  nearly  every- 
body's thoughts  and  his  life  was  like  everybody's  life. 


GARGOYLES  23 

There  was  a  sense  of  strength,  even  satisfaction  in 
this.  He  relapsed  gracefully  into  a  quiet  emptiness 
out  of  which  he  was  able  to  derive  final  embalming 
fluid  for  his  vanity  by  pitying  the  distractions  and  un- 
rest of  others. 

Then  he  died.  The  sight  of  her  husband  lying 
under  the  glass  of  the  coffin  had  reminded  Mrs.  Bas- 
ine  of  the  curious  fact  that  in  their  youth  love  had 
brought  them  together.  A  memory  burrowed  its  way 
from  under  the  debris  of  twenty-six  years  and  con- 
fronted her.  A  memory  of  wild  nights,  flushed  cheeks, 
shining  eyes,  hope  and  careless  words.  And  the  dim 
yesterday,  the  long-forgotten  yesterday  that  lay  in 
the  coffin  with  the  paunchy  figure  of  the  bald-headed 
silk-merchant  became  suddenly  real  again. 

When  she  was  alone  that  night  Mrs.  Basine  wept 
miserably  for  a  love  that  had  died  twenty-five  years 
ago  and  lain  buried  and  unmourned  under  the  debris 
of  these  years.  A  tardy  exhibition  of  grief,  sincere 
but  enfeebled  by  its  own  age,  it  spent  itself  in  a  few 
hours.  The  tears  for  the  memory  of  vanished  youth 
and  vanished  love  of  which  the  body  waiting  in  the 
coffin  had  become  for  a  space  of  grotesque  symbol, 
were  followed  by  the  inarticulate  sense  of  an  anti- 
climax. 

Howard  Basine's  dying  was  somehow  not  a  tra- 
gedy to  the  woman  who  had  lived  with  him  for  twenty- 
six  years.  When  she  had  wept  at  first,  the  idea  of 
death  came  like  a  panic  to  her  heart.  Things  had 
died.  Days,  nights,  hopes  had  died.  But  she  had  been 
unaware  of  their  dying.  The  figure  of  her  husband 
leaving  for  his  day's  work,  returning  from  his  day's 
work,  sitting  at  the  head  of  the  table,  retiring  to  bed 


24  GARGOYLES 

with  her — this  had  been  a  mask  behind  which  the 
dying  of  things  remained  concealed. 

Now  that  he  had  closed  his  eyes  and  vanished  it 
was  as  if  a  mask  had  been  removed.  One  could  see 
all  at  once  all  the  things  that  had  died.  And  she  saw 
not  only  Howard  lying  dead,  but  most  of  herself.  In 
her  mind  she  had  no  memory  of  the  illusory  selves 
she  had  lived,  like  her  husband,  alone.  These  illusory 
selves  whose  successes  and  romances  she  had  caressed 
in  secret  had  of  late  abandoned  her.  Like  her 
husband  she  had  turned  to  the  shells  they  had  cre- 
ated about  themselves  as  the  comforting  reward  of 
her  life's  negation. 

Now  it  struck  her  that  these  shells  were  full  of 
dead  things.  While  he  lived  they  had  seemed  alive. 
The  fact  that  the  man  with  whom  she  had  survived 
twenty-six  years  continued  to  talk  and  to  move  had 
given  her  the  vague  feeling  that  these  years  were  also 
still  alive,  still  existent  somewhere.  Now  the  man 
was  dead  and  the  years  were  dead  with  him.  They 
had  been  dead  all  the  while  but  they  had  not  lain  in 
a  coffin  for  one  to  look  at  like  this. 

Dead  years.  And  she,  a  survivor.  Her  sense  of 
contact  with  the  past  deserted  her.  She  was  alone. 
Everything  that  had  been  was  no  more  and  it  seemed 
during  her  grief  as  if  it  had  never  existed. 

She  lay  and  wept,  feeling  that  something  had  been 
terribly  wasted.  Once  there  had  been  youth.  Now 
there  was  age.  She  had  already  lived  but  how,  where? 
Look,  she  was  already  old  but  how  had  it  happened? 
She  who  could  remember  so  many  things  about  youth 
— her  pretty  face,  her  careless  hopes,  bright,  happy 
excitements;  and  most  of  all,  the  feeling  that  things 


GARGOYLES  25 

lay  ahead — that  a  store  of  mysterious  things  waited  for 
her — she  who  could  remember  it  so  plainly  was  an 
old  woman.  It  had  seemed  natural  before  he  died  but 
now  it  seemed  unnatural.  She  would  die  soon,  too. 
Her  youth — something  she  thought  of  as  youth,  arose 
and  stretched  out  far-away  arms  to  her.  It  came  to 
her  in  the  night  and  stood  smiling  at  her  like  a  ghost 
of  herself.  Yes,  she  was  already  dead  and  she  could 
lie  in  bed  weeping  for  her  husband  and  staring  with 
tired  eyes  at  memories.  Thoughts  did  not  disturb  her. 
Her  emotions,  grown  too  involved  for  the  shallows 
of  her  mind,  gave  her  the  consciousness  merely  of  a 
panic. 

But  the  panic  left.  It  receded  slowly  and  the  death 
of  her  husband  stirred  in  her  during  the  first  weeks 
of  mourning  a  gentle  affection  for  the  man.  She  clos- 
eted herself  with  the  memories  that  had  terrified  her 
— sensual  memories  of  an  impetuous  lover,  an  ideal- 
ization of  a  long-forgotten  Howard.  And  her  sor- 
row became  like  a  vague  honeymoon  shared  with 
slowly  dissolving  erotic  shadows. 

This  too  went.  As  it  went  away  the  widow  became 
curiously  younger  in  her  features,  her  black  clothes, 
her  mannerisms.  She  grew  to  find  the  loneliness  of  her 
bed  desirable.  She  would  snuggle  kittenishly  between 
the  empty  sheets,  an  unintelligible  sense  of  immoral- 
ity— as  if  it  were  immoral  to  sleep  alone — lending  a 
luxury  to  her  weariness. 

Yes,  it  was  somehow  nicer  to  sleep  alone,  to  have 
the  bedroom  all  to  herself.  In  her  mind  things  that 
were  different  from  the  routine  of  her  life  and  that 
belonged  to  the  secret  imaginings  that  had  once  filled 
her  days  were  immoral.  And  this  was  different — 


26  GARGOYLES 

being  alone.  So  her  living  on  without  her  husband 
became  an  odd  sort  of  infidelity,  pleasant,  diverting. 

The  year  and  a  half  passed  bringing  a  rejuvenation 
to  her  body.  Her  youth  and  its  decline  were  buried 
in  a  coffin.  Now  at  fifty-two  she  was  living  again  and 
creating  out  of  the  remains  of  her  figure,  coiffure  and 
complexion  a  new  youth — at  least  a  new  exterior. 

The  dreams  of  her  earlier  days  returned  to  her  and 
she  no  longer  found  it  necessary  to  deny  them  all 
reality.  It  had  been  necessary  before  in  order  to  keep 
herself  fitted  into  the  shell.  And  as  a  result  her 
dreams,  denied  any  possibility  of  realization,  had  be- 
come like  his,  more  and  more  fantastic,  more  and 
more  warmly  improbable.  Now  there  was  no  need 
for  a  shell.  There  was  no  need  to  preserve  an  easily 
recognizable  and  never  failing  characterization.  She 
had  done  that  before  so  as  to  avoid  confusing  her 
husband  and  herself  and  she  had  been  rewarded  by 
a  similar  ruse  employed  by  him. 

Now  that  he  was  gone  she  found  herself  changing. 
She  found  herself  approaching  the  romantic  concep- 
tion of  herself.  And  since  she  was  able  to  carry  into 
reality  her  rejuvenated  fancies,  to  devote  herself  to 
looking  stunning,  to  making  a  somewhat  exotic  im- 
pression upon  people,  to  arousing  interest — her  im- 
aginings did  not  expand  as  before  into  distorted  and 
improbable  pictures.  She  began  to  busy  herself,  to 
actively  give  them  outlet,  to  have  time  or  surplus 
energies  for  the  evolution  of  fancies  beyond  her. 

She  had  no  plans  for  the  future  and  she  was  not 
interested  in  any.  An  amazing  fact  had  come  into  her 
life — the  present.  She  abandoned  herself  to  it.  She 
had  harnessed  what  was  left  of  the  energies  allowed 


GARGOYLES  27 

so  long  to  evaporate  and  the  process  of  evaporation 
was  at  an  end.  She  would  become,  if  there  was  time, 
a  keenly  alive,  egoistic  woman  gorging  herself  upon 
the  desserts  remaining  at  the  banquet  board  before 
which  she  had  sat  for  twenty-six  years  with  closed 
eyes  and  listless  hands. 

She  felt  these  things  only  dimly.  There  was  a  free- 
dom to  life,  like  a  new  taste  in  her  senses.  Of  this 
she  was  confusedly  aware.  And  her  sorrow  for  her 
dead  husband  became  a  pleasant  thing,  a  thing  insep- 
arable from  the  gratitude  she  unknowingly  felt  for 
the  new  existence  his  death  had  given  her. 

She  referred  to  him  with  a  pensively  magnanimous 
air,  inventing  perfections  in  his  character  and  endow- 
ing his  departed  intelligence  with  a  wisdom  far  beyond 
her  own.  This  enabled  her  to  utilize  his  memory  in 
an  odd  way.  When  she  argued  with  her  friends  or 
children,  when  she  was  doubtful  concerning  the  ex- 
travagance or  selfishness  of  her  actions,  or  the  newly 
born  radicalism  of  her  views,  she  would  quote  merci- 
lessly from  her  dead  husband.  The  fact  that  he  was 
dead  lent  a  sanctity  to  whatever  views  he  may  have 
held.  Not  in  her  own  eyes  but,  as  she  shrewdly  sensed, 
in  the  eyes  of  others.  And  she  grew  to  play  unscrupu- 
lously upon  this  thing  she  perceived  in  her  children 
and  friends — that  they  respected  the  words  and  opin- 
ions of  a  dead  man  infinitely  more  than  those  of  one 
alive. 

Thus  she  was  able  to  indulge  herself  in  ways  which 
would  have  astounded  and  perhaps  horrified  the  de- 
parted Basine  and  to  bring  her  immediate  circle  to 
accept  these  ways  as  conventionally  desirable  by  mak- 
ing her  dead  husband  their  spiritual  sponsor.  Her 


28  GARGOYLES 

friends  chafed  under  this  ruse,  but  felt  themselves 
powerless  to  combat  it.  They  were  men  and  women 
who  lived  on  the  opinions  of  the  dead,  who  subscribed 
fanatically  to  all  ideas  sanctified  by  the  length  of  their 
interment.  Themselves,  they  practised  the  ruse  of 
editing  the  wisdoms  of  the  past  as  well  as  prophecies 
of  the  future  into  vindications  of  the  present.  They 
felt  indignant  but  powerless  before  the  treachery  of 
Mrs.  Basine,  who  raided  the  mausoleum  for  private 
articles  of  faith. 

Mrs.  Basine  was  aware  at  first  of  lying  but  this 
feeling  gave  way  to  a  conviction  that  if  her  husband 
had  not  thought  and  said  the  things  she  attributed  to 
him  while  he  was  alive  he  would  have  done  so  had  he 
continued  to  live. 

"Because,"  she  said  to  herself,  "we  were  always 
alike  and  thought  and  said  the  same  things  always.'7 

Her  son  George  was  proud  of  his  mother  but  in- 
clined to  be  dubious  about  the  change  that  had  come 
over  her.  He  was  irritated  particularly  one  evening 
to  hear  his  mother  advocate  equal  suffrage  rights  for 
women  to  a  group  of  surprised  friends  gathered  at 
their  home. 

"I  think  such  ideas  foolish  and  dangerous/'  George 
explained  politely. 

"Why?"  his  mother  inquired. 

Basine  shook  his  head.  He  had  given  the  subject 
no  thought.  But  a  militant  defense  of  the  status  quo 
inspired  him  always  with  a  comfortable  feeling  of 
rectitude. 

"I  see  no  reason,"  pursued  Mrs.  Basine,  "why 
women  shouldn't  vote  as  well  as  men.  I  remember 
your  father  was  very  much  interested  in  the  issue  of 


GARGOYLES  29 

women's  suffrage.  He  said  the  day  would  come  when 
women  voted  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  men  and  that 
the  country  would  be  improved  by  it." 

Basine  stared  at  his  mother.  He  had  grown  to 
realize  that  she  had  discovered  the  trick  of  lending 
weight  and  irrefutable  wisdoms  to  her  own  notions 
by  surrounding  them  with  the  sanctity  of  death.  For 
it  was  almost  impossible  to  fly  in  the  face  of  a  quota- 
tion from  his  father.  The  fact  that  the  man  was  dead 
seemed  to  make  contradiction  of  any  ideas  or  pro- 
phecies attributed  to  him  a  sacrilege.  There  was 
also  the  fact  becoming  daily  more  obvious  that  his 
mother  was  turning  into  an  unscrupulous  administra- 
tor of  the  dead  man's  opinions. 

"I  never  heard  father  say  anything  of  the  kind," 
he  exclaimed  suddenly.  And  then  feeling  that  a  loss 
of  temper  was  the  only  way  in  which  he  could  cover 
the  affront  he  had  offered  his  mother,  he  added  with 
indignation,  "You  keep  backing  up  your  arguments 
by  dragging  dad's  corpse  into  them  all  the  time." 

Mrs.  Basine  looked  at  him  in  amazement,  and  he 
reddened.  He  apologized  quickly.  Mrs.  Basine, 
shocked  by  her  son's  unexpected  penetration,  bit  her 
lip  and  became  silent.  She  let  the  argument  pass,  not 
without  observing  that  her  friends  present  appeared 
for  a  moment  to  rally  around  her  son's  expose — as 
if  he  had  given  words  to  their  own  attitude.  She 
decided  when  she  was  alone  again  to  be  more  care- 
ful.. She  loved  her  son  and  felt  a  dread  of  sacrificing 
his  respect.  There  was  a  dread  also  of  sacrificing  the 
respect  of  these  others  who  had  looked  at  her  for  a 
moment  with  an  accusing  understanding. 

There  had  been  present  a  Mrs.  Gilchrist,  an  old 


30  GARGOYLES 

creature  of  oracular  senilities  whom  she  had  grown 
secretly  to  detest.  But  the  detestation  she  felt  was 
accompanied  by  a  vivid  desire  to  keep  in  with  the 
woman.  Mrs.  Gilchrist  was  a  person  of  position,  de- 
cided position.  Her  son  Aubrey  was  a  novelist.  This 
alone  endowed  the  Gilchrist  tribe  with  an  aura  of 
culture.  They  lived  in  Evanston  and  were  active, 
mother  and  son,  in  the  social  life  of  the  town. 

Mrs.  Basine  was  unable  as  yet  to  determine  the 
reasons  that  made  her  dislike  her.  In  her  secret  mind 
she  called  Mrs.  Gilchrist  a  domineering  old  fool.  But 
she  stopped  with  that.  There  was  the  Gilchrist  social 
position. 

Society  had  always  interested  Mrs.  Basine.  But 
since  her  widowhood  this  interest  had  become  active. 
She  had  read  the  society  columns  of  the  newspapers 
regularly  and  through  the  twenty-six  years  of  her 
married  life  retained  the  singular  idea  that  the  people 
whose  names  appeared  in  these  columns  belonged  to 
a  closely  knit  organization  similar  to  the  Masons — 
only  of  course,  infinitely  superior. 

The  appearance  of  a  new  name  among  the  list  of 
socially  known  always  stirred  an  indignation  in  her. 
She  was  not  a  bounder  herself.  The  closely  knit  or- 
ganization whose  members  poured  tea,  gave  bazaars, 
occupied  boxes  at  the  theater  had  been,  in  her  mind, 
a  fixed  and  invulnerable  institution  neither  to  be  tak- 
en by  storm  nor  won  by  strategy.  Thus  she  had  ex- 
cused her  lack  of  social  ambition  and  success  by  in- 
vesting Society  with  an  almost  magical  aloofness,  a 
sort  of  superhuman  cotorie  of  tea  pourers  and  bene- 
fit givers  that  kept  itself  intact  and  beyond  intrusion 
by  the  exercise  of  incredible  diligence. 


GARGOYLES  31 

Among  her  day  dreams  during  these  years  had  been 
those  of  magnificent  social  successes,  of  long  news- 
paper articles  describing  with  awe  her  splendor  and 
prestige.  But  in  reality  she  would  as  soon  have 
thought  of  breaking  into  society  as  of  attacking  twelve 
policemen  with  a  carving  knife.  She  resented  there- 
fore the  appearance  of  new  names  in  the  society  col- 
umns. 

"Bounders,"  she  would  murmur  to  herself,  half  ex- 
pecting that  the  Organization  into  which  they  had 
bounded  would  issue  some  outraged  and  withering 
excommunication  upon  the  new  tea  pourer.  But  the 
name  would  appear  again  and  again  and  after  such 
innumerable  appearances  Mrs.  Basine  would  auto- 
matically accept  its  presence  within  the  Organization 
and  rally  quixotically  to  its  defense  against  the  other 
bounders  struggling  to  invade  the  sanctity  it  had 
achieved. 

And  although  during  this  period  of  her  life  Mrs. 
Basine  had  felt  none  of  the  low  instincts  which  in- 
spired the  bounders  to  bound,  she  had  endeavored  to 
the  best  of  her  abilities  to  mimic  as  much  as  a'  humble 
outsider  could  the  spiritual  elegancies  which  distin- 
guished the  Organization.  She  succeeded  in  creating  a 
formal  atmosphere  about  her  home,  a  dignity  about 
her  table  of  which  she  was  modestly  proud.  She  had 
felt  in  secret  that  any  member  of  the  Organization 
entering  her  house — an  event  of  which  she  dreamed 
as  a  waveringly  sophisticated  child  might  dream  of 
a  fairy's  visit — would  have  experienced  no  dismay. 

Now  this  attitude  which  had  characterized  her  mar- 
ried life  was  changing.  Society  was  no  longer  an  im- 
pregnable Organization.  Mrs.  Basine  was,  in  fact, 


32  GARGOYLES 

engaged  determinedly  upon  its  conquest  and  her  at- 
titude toward  the  detestable  Mrs.  Gilchrist  was 
colored  by  that  fact.  An  acquaintanceship  with  the 
Gilchrists  had  been  achieved  through  manoeuverings  of 
her  daughters  as  workers  in  charity  bazaars  managed 
by  the  woman. 

Until  the  death  of  her  husband  Mrs.  Basine  had 
ignored  her  two  daughters.  A  proprietory  feeling  in 
them  which  exhausted  itself  in  dictating  the  surface 
details  of  their  lives  had  been  the  extent  of  her  in- 
terest. She  had  presumed  during  their  childhood  and 
adolescence  that  they  were  Basines — and  nothing  else. 
This  had  guided  her  parenthood.  Being  Basines, 
they  must  conform  to  Basinism  which  meant  that  they 
must  be  like  their  mother  or  their  father  and  she 
struggled  carelessly  to  see  that  their  youth  did  not 
assert  itself  in  ways  inimical  to  her  own  characteriza- 
tion. Doris  the  younger  was  inclined  to  be  beautiful. 
Fanny,  however,  had  always  seemed  to  her  a  more 
substantial  person. 

But  her  widowhood  had  brought  a  belated  curios- 
ity concerning  these  young  women.  She  wondered  at 
times  what  their  dreams  were.  She  understood  that 
they  were  strangers  and  this  began  to  interest  her. 
She  was  proud  of  them  and  although  undemonstrative 
would  sometimes  put  her  arms  around  both  of  them 
as  they  walked  to  a  neighbor's  after  dinner. 

They  did  not  inspire  the  pride  in  her,  however,  that 
her  son  did.  George  had  finished  his  law  and  she 
felt  as  she  listened  to  him  talk  or  watched  his  face  at 
the  table  that  he  was  somebody.  There  was  an  as- 
surance and  health  about  him.  His  keen-featured 
face,  the  straight  black  hair  parted  in  the  center,  the 


GARGOYLES  33 

movements  of  his  lithe  body,  always  quick  and  definite 
— and  particularly  his  hands — these  made  her  think 
of  him  vaguely  as  an  artist,  somebody  different.  She 
knew  in  her  heart  that  although  he  seemed  to  differ 
in  his  ideas  from  none  of  their  friends,  he  was  not 
like  other  young  men. 


It  was  Sunday  morning.  Mrs  Basine  and  her  two 
daughters  were  sitting  down  to  breakfast.  Hugh 
Keegan  followed  Basine  embarrassedly  into  the  din- 
ing room.  The  two  young  men  had  been  renovating 
themselves  for  an  hour  in  the  bathroom. 

The  meal  started  casually.  Fanny  Basine  studied 
their  guest  with  what  was  meant  to  be  a  provoking 
carelessness.  She  was  a  facile  virgin  who  wooed  men 
persistently  and  slapped  their  faces  for  misunder- 
standing her. 

"You've  been  quite  a  stranger,  Mr.  Keegan,"  she 
said.  Her  eyes  smiled.  Keegan  felt  wretched.  He 
was  conscious  of  being  unclean.  The  fresh,  virginal 
face  of  the  girl  smiling  at  him  filled  him  with  rage. 
He  accepted  a  waffle  from  Mrs.  Basine  with  exagger- 
ated formality. 

He  was  not  enraged  with  himself.  This  was  too 
difficult.  It  was  easier,  simpler  to  be  repentant.  His 
repentance  did  not  accuse  him  as  a  man  who  had 
sinned  but  denounced  the  things  which  had  caused  him 
to  sin  and  made  him  unclean.  To  himself  he  was 
essentially  perfect.  There  were  forces,  however, 
which  infringed  upon  his  perfection,  which  soiled  his 
fine  qualities. 

Eating  his  waffle,  he  thought  of  the  creature  with 


34  GARGOYLES 

whom  he  had  spent  the  night,  of  the  dismal  bedroom, 
the  frowsy  smelling  hallway,  the  coarse  talk  and  vi- 
ciousness  of  the  entire  business.  And  he  began  to  feel 
a  rage  against  them.  He  would  like  to  wipe  such 
things  out  of  the  world.  He  managed  to  answer  Miss 
Basine  politely. 

"I've  been  out  of  town  a  great  deal,"  he  said. 

"George  always  said  you  were  a  gadly,"  Fanny 
replied. 

Mrs.  Basine  spoke. 

"You  look  rather  tired,  George."  She  gazed  pen- 
sively at  her  son.  "I  don't  like  you  to  stay  out  all 
night  like  that." 

Basine  frowned.  What  did  his  mother  mean  by 
that?  Did  she  suppose  he  had  spent  the  night  in 
debauchery?  It  sounded  that  way  from  the  way  she 
looked  and  talked.  Basine  grew  angry.  He  did  not 
want  his  mother  to  accuse  him. 

"You  don't  expect  ia  man  to  remain  cooped  up 
night  and  day,  do  you?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind  your  going  out.  But  not  the 
way  you  did  last  night." 

She  looked  at  him  and  then,  as  if  realizing  for  the 
first  time  the  presence  of  her  daughters,  changed  her 
manner. 

"Won't  you  have  some  syrup,  Mr.  Keegan." 

Keegan  thanked  her  and  lowered  his  eyes.  He 
had  understood  her  accusation  and  accepted  it  as  au- 
thentic. He  had  no  mother  of  his  own  and  this  in- 
spired in  him  a  curious  sense  of  obedience  toward  all 
mothers  he  encountered.  Mrs.  Basine's  accusation 
embarrassed  him.  The  embarrassment  increased  his 
disgust  for  the  memory  of  the  night.  He  would  like 


GARGOYLES  35 

to  wipe  out  such  obscene  and  vulgar  things.  He  would 
like  to  burn  them  up,  forbid  them.  Someday  he 
would. 

Basine,  however  regarded  his  mother  with  a  sense 
of  outrage.  The  fact  that  her  surmise  of  what  he 
had  done  during  the  night  was  correct  was  a  matter 
of  minor  importance.  She  didn't  know  what  he  had 
done  and  therefore  she  had  no  right  to  guess.  He 
answered  her  angrily. 

"I  did  nothing  at  all  last  night  that  I  wouldn't  have 
my  sisters  do.n 

His  mother  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  Keegan 
blushed. 

"You're  always  hinting  around,  mother,  about 
things  and  you're  absolutely  wrong.  Absolutely,"  he 
added  for  a  clincher.  His  eyes  remained  unflinchingly 
on  his  mother. 

There  was  a  convincing  air  of  virtue  about  him 
and  a  doubt  entered  her  mind.  Perhaps  she  had  sus- 
pected him  unjustly.  But  he  had  been  away  all  night. 
She  had  heard  him  come  in  around  six.  Where  could 
he  have  been  if  not — in  such  places?  Yet  she  felt 
like  apologizing. 

Basine  fiddled  with  his  food.  He  was  acting  out 
the  part  of  injured  innocence.  He  was  an  unprotest- 
ing  martyr  to  the  low  suspicions  of  his  family.  The 
fact  that  he  was  guilty  in  no  way  interfered  with  the 
sincerity  of  his  injured  feelings.  His  mother'^  ac- 
cusation had  sincerely  hurt  him,  even  more  than  it 
would  had  he  been  actually  innocent  of  wrong  doing. 
He  transferred  whatever  emotional  guilt  he  had  into 
indignation  toward  his  accuser. 

This  was  an  old  trick  of  his,  developed  early  in 


36  GARGOYLES 

childhood — a  faculty  of  committing  crimes  without 
becoming  a  criminal.  More  than  Keegan,  he  was 
above  self-accusation.  But  unlike  Keegan  the  doing 
of  a  thing  he  knew  to  be  wrong  did  not  inspire  him 
with  the  adroit  remorse  which  took  the  form  of  hat- 
ing the  thing  he  had  done  instead  of  himself. 

The  crimes  Basine  committed — usually  no  greater 
than  normal  violations  of  the  ethical  code  to  which  he 
subscribed — were  things  that  had  nothing  to  do  with 
the  real  Basine.  The  real  Basine  was  the  Basine  whom 
people  knew.  The  real  Basine  was  a  characterization 
he  maintained  for  the  benefit  of  others.  The  crimes 
were  his  own  secret.  People  didn't  know  them.  There- 
for they  did  not  exist.  They  remained  locked  away. 
He  did  not  say  to  himself,  "Hypocrite !  Liar !" 

When  he  denied  his  mother's  accusation  he  did  not 
of  course  forget  the  things  he  had  done  during  the 
night.  In  fact  even  while  he  spoke  there  came  to  him 
a  vivid  memory  of  the  prostitute. 

In  disproving  the  existence  of  this  memory  he  was 
not  disproving  it  for  himself  but  for  his  mother.  His 
energy  as  usual  was  bent  toward  presenting  a  certain 
Basine  for  the  admiration  of  another.  The  Basine  he 
sought  to  create  for  the  admiration  of  his  family  was 
a  moral  and  honest  man.  When  they  seemed  inclined 
to  challenge  this  creation,  their  suspicions  angered 
him. 

His  attitude  was  that  of  a  creator  toward  a  hostile 
critic.  He  frequently  lost  his  temper  and  denounced 
their  suspicions  as  unjust,  unfair.  And  in  his  mind,  con- 
veniently clouded  by  indignation,  they  were.  Not  to 
himself  as  he  was,  but  to  the  self  he  insisted  upon 
pretending  at  the  moment  he  was. 


GARGOYLES  37 

This  self  was  the  Basine  he  was  continually  creat- 
ing— a  Basine  that  was  not  based  upon  deeds  or  truths 
or  facts  but  upon  ideals.  It  was  an  ideal  Basine 
— a  nobly  edited  version  of  his  character.  He 
believed  in  this  ideal  Basine  with  a  curious  passion. 
This  ideal  Basine  was  a  mixture  of  lies,  shams,  per- 
versions of  fact.  But  that  was  only  when  you  con- 
sidered him  in  relation  to  his  creator — to  its  original. 
In  his  own  mind  it  was  as  absurd  to  consider  this  ideal 
Basine  in  relation  to  its  creator  as  it  would  have  been 
for  a  critic  of  aesthetics  to  consider  the  merits  of  Oscar 
Wilde's  poetry  in  relation  to  the  degeneracy  of  the  man. 

Considered  by  himself,  the  ideal  Basine  was  a  per- 
son of  inspiring  virtues.  He  was  proud  of  the  things 
he  pretended  to  be,  vicious  in  their  defense,  unswerv- 
ing in  his  efforts  to  inspire  others  with  an  appreciation 
of  these  pretenses. 

His  anger  toward  his  mother  ebbed  as  he  noticed 
the  doubt  come  into  her  manner.  She  had  hesitated 
for  a  moment  in  face  of  significant  facts,  in  accepting 
the  ideal  Basine.  But  her  son's  sincerity  had  con- 
vinced her  as  it  convinced  most  people  who  knew 
him.  The  sincerity  with  which  he  defended  the  ideal- 
ization of  himself  was  easily  to  be  mistaken  for  a 
sincerity  inspired  by  an  innocence  of  actual  wrong- 
doing. 

As  soon  as  he  felt  certain  he  had  re-established  the 
ideal  Basine  in  his  mother's  eyes,  all  thoughts  of  the 
facts  passed  from  him.  The  admiring  opinion  of 
others  was  what  his  nature  desired  and  what  his 
energies  worked  for.  Once  obtained  this  admiration 
was  a  mirror  in  which  he  saw  himself  only  as  he  had 
argued  others  into  seeing  him. 


38  GARGOYLES 

He  looked  at  his  friend  Keegan  with  a  smile.  Kee- 
gan  was  still  blushing.  Keegan  knew  that  he  had  lied 
and  that  the  entire  pose  was  a  sham.  But  this  only 
added  another  thrill  to  the  fleeting  self-satisfaction  of 
having  re-established  himself  in  his  family's  eyes.  He 
enjoyed  the  knowledge  that  Keegan  was  able  to  see 
what  a  successful  liar  he  was  and  how  adroitly  he 
managed  to  deceive  people.  This  enjoyment  was  not 
a  part  of  the  emotion  of  the  ideal  Basine.  It  was  a 
purely  human  sensation  felt  by  Basine,  the  creator. 

There  was  a  single  flaw  in  his  little  triumph.  This 
was,  as  usual,  the  attitude  of  his  sister  Doris.  While 
the  others  were  chattering  Doris  kept  silent.  She  had 
dark  eyes  and  black  hair.  She  was  entirely  unlike 
anybody  in  the  Basine  family.  Fanny  was  blonde  and 
vivacious  with  a  pout  and  full  red  lips.  Before  the 
death  of  her  husband  Mrs.  Basine  had  summed  up 
her  daughter  Doris  as  being  aristocratic. 

At  fifteen  Doris  had  been  painfully  shy.  People 
smiled  encouragingly  at  her  because  she  seemed  afraid 
of  them.  Four  years  later  people  ceased  to  smile  at 
her.  They  looked  at  her  out  of  the  corners  of  their 
eyes  and  wondered  what  she  was  thinking  about.  Her 
silence  was  like  a  confusing  argument.  Had  it  not 
been  for  her  beauty  her  silence  could  easily  have  been 
dismissed.  But  her  dark  eyes  and  dark  hair,  the 
slightly  lowered  pose  of  her  oval  face  and  the  unvary- 
ing line  of  her  fresh  lips  with  the  little  sensual  bulges 
at  their  corners,  drew  the  attention  of  people.  And 
their  attention  drawn,  they  waited  to  be  told  some- 
thing. So  merely  because  she  told  nothing  they  fan- 
cied she  had  a  great  deal  to  tell.  They  attributed  to 


GARGOYLES  39 

her  silence  all  the  doubts  they  had  concerning  them- 
selves.   Silence  was  to  them  always  accusation. 

Her  brother's  attitude  toward  Doris  was  typical. 
He  detested  her  and  yet  was  more  pleased  when  she 
nodded  at  something  he  said  than  when  others  were 
loud  with  acclaim.  He  detested  her  because  she  made 
him  feel  she  was  his  superior.  In  what  way  she  was 
superior  he  didn't  know  and  why  he  felt  it  he  couldn't 
understand.  But  he  sensed  she  was  someone  who  had 
no  respect  for  the  ideal  Basine  and  no  particular  love 
for  his  creator. 

She  had  also  a  way  of  deflating  him.  He  felt  some- 
times as  a  toy  balloon  might  feel  in  the  presence  of  a 
child  with  a  pin.  He  never  ignored  her.  He  watched 
her  always  and  studied  her  carefully.  He  did  not 
desire  to  please  her  but  he  felt  that  until  he  had  per- 
fected the  ideal  Basine  to  a  point  where  he  would  be 
acceptable  to  Doris,  admired  by  Doris,  his  creation 
would  be  lacking  in  something  vital. 

As  the  breakfast  came  to  an  end  her  brother 
focused  upon  Doris.  This  was  invariably  the  effect  of 
her  silence.  She  was  as  yet  unconscious  of  it.  Had 
you  asked  her  why  she  spoke  so  little  and  why  she 
neither  smiled  nor  frowned  at  people  she  would  have 
thought  a  while  and  then  with  a  shrug  replied,  "Why, 
I  hadn't  noticed."  Later  when  she  was  alone  she 
would  have  continued  thinking  of  the  question  and 
perhaps  said  to  herself,  "It  must  be  because  they  don't 
interest  me.  They  seem  so  silly  and  unreal." 

"What  are  you  doing  today?"  Basine  asked  her. 
She  answered,  "Nothing."    He  noticed  she  failed 
to  add,  "Why?"  He  resented  her  lack  of  curiosity. 
Fanny  would  have  said,   "Nothing.       Why  do  you 


40  GARGOYLES 

ask?"  But  Fanny  was  a  good  fellow,  a  lively,  amus- 
ing child. 

"Mrs.  Gilchrist  and  Aubrey  are  coming  over  later," 
Mrs.  Basine  announced. 

"She  makes  me  tired,"  Fanny  smiled.  "And  some- 
body ought  to  pull  dear  Aubrey's  nose  just  to  see  if 
he's  really  alive.  He's  too  dignified." 

Her  brother  nodded. 

"Do  you  know  him?"  Fanny  asked  Keegan. 

"Slightly,"  said  Keegan.  "I've  read  one  or  two  of 
his  books.  They're  very  interesting."  He  paused, 
hoping  that  everyone  agreed  with  him.  Everyone  did 
except  Doris. 

"What's  the  matter,  Doric?  Don't  you  like  Au- 
brey's works?"  her  brother  asked.  Doris  smiled 
vaguely. 

"I've  never  read  anything  he's  written,"  she  said. 
"I  don't  know." 

Keegan  looked  at  her  uncomfortably.  He  felt  he 
disliked  her  and  he  would  have  been  pleased  to  ignore 
her.  But  the  fact  that  she  seemed  to  have  anticipated 
him  in  this  respect  and  to  have  ignored  him  first, 
piqued  him. 

"I  think  Judge  Smith  and  Henrietta  will  be  over 
later,"  Basine  addressed  his  mother.  Judge  Smith 
was  the  august  and  senior  partner  of  the  law  firm 
that  had  taken  young  Basine  into  its  office. 

"Yes,  Aubrey  told  me,"  Mrs.  Basine  said  casually. 
"I  think  they're  engaged." 

"Who,  Henrietta?"  from  Fanny. 

Her  mother  nodded.  She  stood  up  and  the  group 
sauntered  into  the  living  room.  Keegan  approached 
Fanny-  Her  freshness  made  him  feel  sad. 


GARGOYLES  41 

"Lets  sit  here,"  Fanny  whispered  as  he  drew  near 
her.  She  employed  the  whisper  frequently.  It  usually 
brought  a  gleam  into  the  eyes  of  her  vis  a  vis  as  if 
she  had  promised  something. 

To  appear  to  promise  something  was  Fanny's  chief 
object  in  life.  It  was  the  basis  of  her  growing  popu- 
larity. The  two  sat  down  in  a  corner  of  the  room 
secluded  from  the  others.  Keegan  had  interested 
her.  At  least  his  far-away,  unappraising  look  had  in- 
terested her.  She  preferred  men  more  appraising  and 
less  far-away.  Her  object  now  was  to  reduce  her  bro- 
ther's friend  to  an  admirer.  Admirers  bored  her.  But 
the  process  of  converting  strangers,  particularly  far- 
away and  unappraising  strangers,  into  admirers  was 
diverting. 

Keegan  had  other  plans.  A  desire  to  repent  aloud 
had  been  growing  in  Keegan.  The  girl's  bright  face 
and  virginal  air  had  been  inspiring  him.  He  wanted 
to  tell  her  how  unclean  he  was  and  how  ashamed  of 
the  things  he  had  done.  He  wanted  to  denounce  sin. 

He  felt  tired.  Fanny  talked  and  he  listened.  He 
wanted  to  weep.  He  thought  her  fingers  were  beau- 
tiful and  white.  He  would  have  liked  to  kneel  beside 
her  weeping,  his  head  against  her  and  her  cool  white 
fingers  running  over  his  face.  It  would  be  a  sort  of 
absolution — a  maternal  absolution.  In  the  meantime 
his  silence  piqued  her. 

"You  don't  seem  very  interested  in  what  I'm  say- 
ing," she  interrupted  herself.  She  looked  at  him  and 
instinct  supplied  her  with  a  new  attack. 

"Where  were  you  and  George  last  night?"  she 
asked.  "Mother  was  furious  about  it." 

Keegan  looked  sad.    His  blond  face  collapsed. 


42  GARGOYLES 

"Men  are  awful  rotters,"  he  answered,  lowering  his 
voice. 

"Oh  I  don't  know.    Not  all  men." 

"Yes.    All  men."    Savagely. 

"Why  do  you  say  that?" 

"Because — "  Keegan  hesitated.  Mysterious  im- 
pulses were  operating  behind  his  talk.  The  night's 
debauch  had  sickened  him.  He  was  experiencing  that 
depressing  type  of  virtue  which  usually  comes  as  a 
reaction  from  an  orgy.  His  indignation  at  the  bestial- 
ity of  the  male  and  the  moral  rotteness  of  life  was 
a  vindication  of  the  temporary  weakened  state  the 
night  had  induced  in  him.  By  denouncing  sex  he  ex- 
cused the  disturbing  absence  of  it  in  himself. 

He  was  however  not  content  to  vindicate  the  ab- 
sence in  himself  of  sensual  excitement.  He  would 
also  make  use  of  his  lassitude  by  translating  the  en- 
ervation it  produced  into  self-ennobling  emotions,  into 
purity,  innate  and  triumphant.  He  experienced  high- 
minded  ideas  and  an  exaltation  of  spirit. 

"Because,"  he  repeated,  finding  it  difficult  to  chose 
words  sufficiently  emasculated  to  reflect  the  phenom- 
enal purity  of  his  mind,  "well,  if  women  knew,  they 
would  never  talk  to  men.  But  women  are  so  good, 
that  is,  decent  women,  that  they  simply  don't  under- 
stand and  can't  understand  .  .  .  what  it  is." 

"About  bad  men?"  Fanny  whispered.  Keegan  nod- 
ded. 

"And  are  all  men  bad?"  she  asked. 

Again  Keegan  nodded,  this  time  more  sadly.  It 
was  a  nod  of  confession  and  purity.  In  it  he  felt  his 
obscene  past  and  his  pious  future  embrace  each  other, 


GARGOYLES  43 

one  whispering  "forgive"  and  the  other  whispering 
"yes,  yes.  All  is  forgiven." 

Tears  warmed  his  throat.  Fanny's  eyes  looked  at 
him  with  an  odd  excitement.  Her  mind  was  as  always 
conveniently  blank  of  thought.  Thoughts  would  have 
served  only  to  embarrass  and  handicap  her.  She  was 
able  to  enjoy  herself  more  easily  without  thinking.  It 
was  a  ruse  which  enabled  her  to  regard  herself  as  a 
clean-minded  girl. 

Young  men  had  frequently  taken  advantage  of  her 
kindness  and  grown  bold.  They  would  during  a  ten- 
der embrace  sometimes  take  liberties  or  draw  her  close 
and  press  themselves  against  her.  It  was  at  this  point 
that  her  mind  would  awake  like  a  burglar  alarm  sud- 
denly set  off.  It  rang  and  clanged — an  outraged  and 
intimidating  ding-dong  of  virtuous  platitudes  which 
she  had  incongruously  rigged  up  in  the  sensual  warmth 
of  her  nature.  But  lately  the  mechanism  by  which  she 
routed  her  would-be  seducers  did  not  quite  satisfy  her. 

At  twenty  she  had  grown  fearful.  When  she  was 
younger  the  men  she  led  on  were  no  more  than  boys. 
The  mechanism  had  sufficed  for  them.  But  the  last 
two  years  had  witnessed  a  change  in  her  would-be 
seducers.  They  had  grown  up,  these  males.  She  re- 
membered always  uncomfortably  a  young  man  who 
had  burst  into  laughter  during  her  outraged  denun- 
ciation of  him.  He  had  said  to  her. 

"Listen,  girl.  If  I  wanted  you,  all  I  would  have  to 
do  is  tell  you  to  shut  up  and  slap  your  face.  And  you 
would.  Your  'how  dare  you?'  don't  go  with  me.  I've 
known  too  many  girls  like  you.  But  I  don't  want  you. 
Not  after  this.  If  it'll  do  you  any  good  I'll  tell  you 
now  that  I  won't  forget  you  for  a  long  time.  When- 


44  GARGOYLES 

ever  I  want  a  good  laugh  I'll  think  of  you.  There's 
a  name  for  your  kind.  .  .  .  ' 

And  he  had  used  a  phrase  that  nauseated  her.  The 
incident  had  occurred  on  a  Sunday  evening  in  the  hall- 
way. He  had  reached  up,  taken  his  hat  from  the  rack 
and  without  further  comment  walked  out. 

Fanny  had  spent  the  night  weeping  with  shame. 
The  memory  of  the  young  man's  words  made  spoon- 
ing impossible  for  a  month.  She  was  essentially  an 
honest  person  and  unable  to  do  a  thing  she  knew  was 
wrong.  Her  only  hope  of  pleasing  herself  and  in- 
dulging her  growing  sensuality  lay  in  remaining  sin- 
cerely oblivious  to  what  she  was  doing.  As  long  as 
the  man's  words  stuck  in  her  memory  it  was  impossi- 
ble to  remain  oblivious.  They  had  awakened  no  line 
of  reasoning  or  self-accusation  in  her  mind.  Her 
mind  was  still  conveniently  blank.  The  youth's  de- 
nunciation lay  like  a  foreign  substance  in  it,  a  sub- 
stance which  fortunately  time  was  able  to  dissolve. 

After  a  month  of  embittered  virtue  Fanny  returned 
warily  to  her  former  tactics.  She  was  cautious  enough 
to  begin  with  men  as  young  as  herself. 

One  night  in  April  she  gave  her  lips  again.  They 
had  been  making  candy  in  the  kitchen.  She  turned  the 
light  out  as  they  were  leaving.  The  young  man  stood 
in  front  of  her  in  the  dark.  His  arms  went  shyly 
around  her.  With  a  satisfied  thrill,  she  shut  her  eyes 
and  allowed  the  boy  to  kiss  her.  A  languor  overcame 
her.  She  ran  her  fingers  through  his  hair  and  gently 
pressed  closer  to  him. 

The  warning  sounded  sooner  than  usual,  and  in  a 
surprising  way.  It  came  from  within  this  time.  The 
boy  had  not  grown  bold.  He  was  enjoying  her  lips 


GARGOYLES  45 

shyly  and  his  embrace  was  almost  that  of  a  dancing 
partner.  Nevertheless  the  burglar  alarm  clang-clanged. 
Her  body  had  grown  hot.  The  impulse  to  crush 
herself  against  the  boy,  to  open  her  mouth,  to  embrace 
him  fiercely,  throbbed  in  her,  and  bewildering  sensa- 
tions were  bursting  unsatisfactory  warmths  in  her 
blood. 

She  hesitated.  She  might  secretly  yield  to  these  de- 
mands. He  would  remain  unaware  of  it  and  there 
would  be  no  danger.  But  the  alarm  finally  penetrated 
the  fog  of  her  senses.  She  was  unable  this  time  to 
shut  off  the  current  of  her  passion  by  the  burst  of 
sudden  virtuous  anger.  The  mechanism  of  her  retreat 
had  always  been  simple — a  trick  of  turning  her  sensual 
excitement  into  indignation,  of  energizing  the  virtu- 
ous platitudes  rigged  up  in  her  mind  by  the  passion 
the  caresses  had  stirred.  The  greater  this  passion,  the 
more  violently  her  pulse  beat,  the  more  violently  the 
platitudes  would  clang  and  the  more  outraged  her 
"how  dare  you?"  would  sound. 

But  it  was  impossible  to  say  anything  this  time. 
Her  hands  pushed  suddenly  at  the  politely  amorous 
youth.  His  embrace  skipped  from  her  as  if  it  had 
been  waiting  for  such  a  remonstrance.  She  stood  with 
her  head  whirling.  She  felt  limp  and  ill  at  ease. 

"Don't  you  love  me?"  the  young  man  whispered. 
The  lameness  of  his  voice  would  ordinarily  have  made 
her  smile.  But  now  the  words  seemed  to  draw  her. 
She  wanted  to  answer  them,  to  say,  "yes."  For  the 
moment  it  seemed  as  if  she  must  confess  she  loved 
this  impossible  young  man.  She  walked  quickly 
out  of  the  dark  hallway.  In  the  lighted  room 
she  was  ashamed  of  herself.  Her  body  tingled 


46  GARGOYLES 

with  unaccountable  pains.  She  managed  to  survive 
the  evening  without  revealing  herself.  She  was  grate- 
ful for  the  youth's  stupidity. 

When  she  lay  in  bed  she  closed  her  eyes  firmly  and 
tried  to  sleep.  But  her  body  disturbed  her.  Sensa- 
tions that  lured  and  frightened  played  furtively 
throughout  it.  She  lay  stretching  and  sighing.  Later, 
overcome  with  a  nervous  weariness,  she  fell  asleep. 

On  awaking  she  remembered  her  triumph  and  felt 
proud.  In  retrospect  the  sensations  she  had  felt  and 
the  temptations  that  had  urged  her  seemed  distasteful. 

Years  before  she  had  rationalized  her  behavior  to- 
ward young  men  by  inventing  a  code.  The  code  was 
based  on  the  fact  that  hugging  and  kissing  and  the 
pleasure  these  inspired  were  in  no  way  connected  with 
"the  other."  When  she  thought  of  more  intimate 
relations  it  was  always  in  some  such  phrase.  She  was 
completely  ignorant  of  the  physiological  mechanics 
of  marriage.  But  her  ignorance  inspired  no  curiosity. 
She  did  not  think  of  it  as  a  logical  culmination  of  the 
feeling  embraces  gave  her.  She  had  a  definite  attitude 
toward  "the  other.'1  It  was  a  thing  separated  from 
her  numerous  experiences  by  a  gulf.  There  was  only 
one  bridge  across — marriage. 

Keegan  interested  her.  Since  the  incident  of  the 
embarrassed  young  man  with  whom  she  had  made 
candy  in  the  kitchen,  she  had  been  secretly  on  the  look- 
out for  someone  like  him.  She  wanted  someone  with 
whom  she  could  repeat  the  startling  experience  of  that 
other  evening  without  letting  herself  into  danger. 
Someone  who  would  remain  oblivious  to  the  passion 
his  caresses  aroused  and  so  allow  her  to  enjoy  slyly 
the  sensations  whose  memory  had  never  left  her. 


GARGOYLES  47 

She  looked  around  the  room.  Doris  had  gone  up- 
stairs and  George  was  not  to  be  seen.  Her  mother 
was  reading  behind  a  large  table. 

"Tell  me,  why  are  men  bad?"  she  asked  in  a  whis- 
per. Her  blue  eyes  were  wide.  An  air  of  altruistic 
sorrow  surrounded  her.  She  grieved  for  men.  The 
question  appealed  to  Keegan.  His  eyes  grew  moist. 
He  was  unable  to  understand  this  impulse  to  weep. 
But  somehow  it  was  pleasant. 

''They're  not  bad,"  he  answered  softly.  "It's  only 
that  they  don't  realize  till  too  late.  If  all  women 
were  like  you,  there  would  be  no  bad  men." 

"Oh,  then  it's  the  woman's  fault?" 

Keegan  nodded  but  said,  "Not  exactly.  It's  like 
figuring  which  came  first  into  the  world,  the  egg  or 
the  chicken  that  laid  it.  It's  hard  telling  whether 
women  are  bad  because  men  have  made  them  so  or 
whether  men  are  bad  because  women  give  them 
chances  to  be.  That  is,  that  kind  of  women,  you 
know." 

He  felt  elated  at  his  tolerance.  A  few  minutes  ago 
he  had  been  denouncing  bad  women  in  his  mind.  But 
now  it  pleased  him  to  be  broader.  Fanny  was  look- 
ing at  him  with  cheeks  flushed.  Her  mother  had 
risen. 

"I  think  I'll  go  to  church,"  Mrs.  Basine  said.  "Do 
you  want  to  come  along." 

"Not  today,  mother  dear,"  Fanny  answered. 
Keegan  was  on  his  feet. 

"If  you  want  to,"  he  offered  gallantly  to  the  girl. 

"I  usually  love  to,"  Fanny  sighed.  "But  I  don't  feel 
quite  like  it  today.  You  go  along,  mother." 

Mrs.  Basine  smiled  and  left  the  room.  Fanny  heard 


48  GARGOYLES 

her  brother  talking  in  the  hall  ...  "I  think  I'll 
go  with  you,  mother."  She  listened  to  Keegan  in 
silence,  waiting  for  the  outer  door  to  close.  Now 
they  were  alone  except  for  Doris,  upstairs. 

"I  know  how  you  must  feel  about  it,"  she  said.  "But 
I  don't  understand  how  a  man  like  you  or  George  can 
do  such  things.  It  must  be  awful."  She  paused,  blush- 
ing and  added  in  a  whisper,  "Horrible!" 

Keegan  nodded  and  felt  overcome  as  he  watched 
her  shudder  and  draw  her  shoulders  nervously 
together.  He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  This 
was,  he  felt,  being  almost  too  dramatic — to  hide  his 
face.  But  his  virtue  demanded  dramatics.  He  wanted 
to  talk  facts  now,  confess  facts.  By  denouncing 
what  he  had  done  during  the  night  he  would  increase 
his  present  emotion  of  chastity. 

"Don't,"  he  said,  "lets  talk  of  it." 

His  eyes  grew  wet  again.  He  was  tired.  If  only 
life  were  as  clean  as  this  girl  he  was  talking  to  .  .  . 
If  only  life  were  beautiful  and  chaste.  And  there  were 
no  sex.  No  sin.  Men  and  women  just  sweet  friends. 
But  life  was  different.  It  was  full  of  unclean  things. 
He  couldn't  help  it,  what  he  did.  He  didn't  want  to 
do  it.  But  life  surrounded  him  that  way  with  things 
unclean.  He  wept. 

Fanny  hesitated.  Her  face  had  grown  colored  and 
her  nerves  were  alive.  She  must  do  something.  Her 
fingers  desired  to  caress  Keegan's  hair  and  she  thought 
how  nice  it  would  be  to  be  kissed  by  him.  But  she 
resolutely  barred  further  thoughts  from  her  mind.  It 
was  wrong  to  think  about  such  things.  Fanny's  code 
would  allow  her  to  do  nothing  wrong — if  she  knew 
it.  She  leaned  forward  impulsively.  He  was  sitting 


GARGOYLES  49 

on  a  window  seat.    Her  hands  touched  his  covered 
face. 

uYou  mustn't,"  she  said. 

He  was  sorry  for  life,  for  its  uncleanliness.  He 
would  like  to  go  somewhere  far  away  where  clean 
clouds  and  a  beautiful  sea  were  just  as  God  had  made 
them.  And  there  he  would  like  to  sit  with  this  girl, 
their  hearts  beautifully  sad. 

She  stroked  his  hair  shyly  with  maternal  fingers. 
He  felt  the  caress  and  his  heart  melted.  Its  sin 
poured  out  leaving  him  exaltedly  cleansed.  Yes,  she 
understood  him,  the  ache  of  repentance  in  his  soul, 
the  nostalgia  for  cleanliness  that  hurt  him  so.  She 
understood  and  she  was  telling  him  so  with  her  fingers. 

"Poor  boy,"  she  whispered  because  he  was  weep- 
ing. "I'm  so  sorry.  You  won't,  again?  Ever?  Will 
you?" 

"No,"  Keegan  mumbled  tremulously. 

It  was  easy  and  exalting  to  confess  and  promise  in 
this  way,  without  mentioning  anything  by  name.  Just 
by  sound. 

"I'm  so  glad,"  she  whispered,  as  if  they  were  in 
church,  "if  I  have  done  that  for  you.  .  ." 

"You  have,"  he  agreed.  "I  feel  like  a  ...  like  a 
dog." 

"Dont  .  .  ." 

Her  fingers  were  playing  over  his  cheek.  She  could 
be  bold.  A  man  in  tears  was  harmless.  She  stood  up 
with  determination  and  sat  down  close  beside  him. 
She  took  his  head  in  her  hands  and  looking  with  clear 
understanding  eyes  into  his,  shook  her  head  sadly. 

"You  need  a  rest,"  she  whispered.  "Here  .  .  .  rest 
like  this." 


50  GARGOYLES 

She  placed  his  head  as  if  he  were  a  child  on  her 
shoulder.  Keegan's  heart  contracted  with  remorse  at 
the  innocence  of  the  gesture.  Her  purity  was  some- 
thing poignant.  He  closed  his  eyes  and  drifted  into 
an  innocuous  satisfaction.  This  was  a  realization  of 
his  hopes  for  purity.  He  recalled  with  bitterness  the 
filthy  embraces  of  the  night.  How  superior  this  was, 
how  much  cleaner. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  Fanny  murmured,  a  wholesome 
matter-of-fact  maternalism  in  her  voice,  "you  lie 
down  and  rest  .  .  .  like  this.'1 

She  assumed  the  proprietory  gestures  remembered 
from  her  childhood  when  she  had  "played  house" 
with  little  boys  and  girls,  land  guided  Keegan  to 
stretch  his  legs  on  the  window  seat.  He  grinned 
apologetically.  Fanny  sat  down  and  placed  his  head 
in  her  lap,  her  hands  gently  caressing  his  hair. 

"Now  sleep,"  she  murmured.  "There's  nobody  in 
the  house  and  you  can  get  a  good  long  rest." 

Keegan  shut  his  eyes.  A  blissful  enervation  stole 
over  him.  His  heart  felt  grateful.  She  was  like  a 
mother  might  be.  Everyone  had  a  mother  except  him. 

"You're  so  kind,"  he  sighed. 

He  had  known  Fanny  for  several  months  only  and 
had  never  talked  to  her  alone  before.  But  now  it 
seemed  to  him  she  was  his  oldest  and  most  intimate 
friend.  Because  she  understood.  He  thought  of  her 
as  a  companion  of  his  better  self.  The  warmth  of  her 
lap  soothed  him.  Unaware,  he  dropped  into  a  half 
doze. 

The  man's  head  lying  heavily  against  her  body  be- 
gan to  stir  her  senses.  She  made  certain  first  that  he 
was  not  pressing  himself  against  her.  No,  he  was 


GARGOYLES  SI 

merely  lying  naturally.  A  tenderness  grew  in  her 
heart.  She  murmured  to  herself,  "Poor  boy,  poor 
boy." 

This  wasn't  quite  as  it  had  been  in  the  kitchen  that 
evening.  The  murmur  continued  as  her  face  grew 
flushed  and  she  breathed  unevenly.  She  wanted  to 
stretch  and  sigh. 

Keegan  stirred.  A  fear  came  that  he  realized  her 
sensations.  He  was  playing  possum.  No.  She 
watched  his  eyes  open  and  noted  their  stare  of  filmy 
tenderness. 

"You're  so  sweet,"  he  whispered. 

She  smiled  pitifully  at  him  and  said,  "Rest.  Just 
rest.  I  feel  so  sorry  for  you." 

In  fact,  imposed  upon  the  excitement  which  the  pres- 
sure of  his  head  against  her  aroused,  was  a  feeling 
of  Samaritan  pity.  However,  she  wondered  without 
displacing  this  emotion  of  altruistic  concern  for  the 
young  man,  how  far  she  dared  go.  She  wished  that 
his  hands  would  touch  her  but  they  would  have  to 
stand  up  for  that. 

"Oh!" 

She  moved  Keegan's  head  gently  away. 

"I  thought  I  heard  someone." 

Slipping  to  her  feet  she  stared  eagerly  toward  the 
door.  Keegan  straightened  himself.  He  looked  at 
her  drowsily. 

"It's  no  one,"  she  smiled.  Her  eyes  covered  him 
with  tender  interest.  He  thought  of  some  picture  of 
a  saint — Saint  Cecelia  or  someone  like  that. 

"Why  don't  you  go  up  in  George's  room?"  she 
asked. 


52  GARGOYLES 

She  gave  him  her  hand  as  if  to  assist  him  in  a  com- 
radely way  to  rise.  He  stood  up  slowly. 

"You  don't  know  what  youVe  done  for  me,"  he 
began,  "you're  so  different  ...  so  good." 

She  smiled  and  made  a  pretense  of  assisting  him 
further  by  passing  her  arm  gently  around  him. 

"I  don't  know  what  it  is,"  he  murmured.  He  stop- 
ped. His  heart  was  hurting  him  with  longing.  He  was 
unclean.  But  this  beautiful  saint  would  cleanse  him, 
purify  him.  She  was  a  part  of  life  he  desired — the 
clean  things.  But  he  was  afraid.  How  could  he  after 
last  night,  how  could  he  dare?  She  would  certainly 
misunderstand  if  he  touched  her.  She  would  think 
he  was  a  scoundrel. 

"Fanny,"  he  whispered. 

She  looked  at  him  with  intensely  tender  eyes  as  a 
mother  might  regard  a  forgiven  child.  He  embraced 
her,  his  hands  resting  only  lightly  on  her  back. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  mumbled.  "But  everything's  so 
rotten.  I  feel  like  such  a  cad  after  what  IVe  done. 
You  .  .  .  you  make  me  almost  happy  again." 

His  mind  was  pleasantly  fogged.  He  was  thinking 
of  himself  as  a  despicable  sinner  receiving  mysterious 
absolution. 

She  said  nothing  but  let  herself  come  closer.  She 
was  adroit  and  he  remained  unaware  that  she  had 
pressed  herself  tautly  against  him.  He  was  concerned 
entirely  with  the  purity  of  his  caress.  He  read  in 
her  eyes  and  flushed  face  a  forgiveness,  an  absolu- 
tion. Her  grip  on  him  that  had  grown  firm  was  the 
grip  of  a  woman  raising  him  out  of  the  Hell  in  which 
he  had  wallowed.  His  senses,  deadened  by  debauch, 
failed  to  detect  the  pressure  of  her  clinging. 


GARGOYLES  S3 

She  could  dare.  An  intensity  came  slowly  into  her 
nerves.  She  would  like  to  move,  to  crush  herself 
against  him.  But  she  managed  to  restrain  herself.  She 
began  to  weep. 

"Don't,"  he  whispered.  "You  mustn't.  I'm  .  .  . 
I'm  not  as  bad  as  all  that." 

She  managed  to  say,  "Oh  ...  I  feel  so  sorry  for 
you.  It  just  hurts  me  to  .  .  .to  think  of  you  like  that. 
Promise  me  you'll  never  again  .  .  .  Please  .  .  .  Promise 
me  ...  Promise  me  .  .  ." 

Her  words,  despite  her,  grew  wild.  She  raised  her 
eyes  feverishly  and,  tightening  her  arms,  pressed  her- 
self to  him.  The  man's  harmlessness  had  betrayed 
her.  She  continued  to  weep,  "Promise  me  ...  you'll 
never  ...  be  bad  like  that  again  ..." 

Her  emotion  reaching  its  depth  sent  a  delicious 
sense  through  her.  She  embraced  him  for  a  moment. 
In  the  receding  fog  of  her  satisfied  impulse  she  heard 
him  answering,  tears  in  his  voice. 

"You're  so  sweet  ...  So  wonderful.  Oh,  forgive 
me  ...  I'll  never  be  bad  again  .  .  .  Forgive  me  .  .  ." 

4 

Judge  Percival  Smith  was  a  fastidious  gentleman 
who  boasted  of  his  age  as  a  contrast  to  his  virility. 

"Sixty-two,"  he  pronounced  impressively.  And  he 
would  wait  for  people  to  look  at  him  in  amazement, 
fortunately  unaware  of  the  fact  that  they  had  thought 
him  at  least  seventy. 

His  wife  had  died  when  he  was  forty-six.  She  had 
never  managed  to  understand  him,  chiefly  because  he 
had  remained  polite  to  her  through  eighteen  years  of 
marriage.  She  had  grown  to  regard  him  with  awe. 

Her  friends  always  referred  to  him  as  a  gentleman 


54  GARGOYLES 

— a  gentleman  of  the  old  school.  This  was  because 
he  had  a  deep  voice  and  enunciated  clearly  and  pro- 
fessed a  consistent  preference  for  the  days  when  men 
were  men  and  women  were  women. 

His  friends  mistook  the  clarity  of  his  enunciation 
for  a  clarity  of  thought — an  error  which  found  social 
vindication  in  the  fact  that  he  had  been  on  the  bench 
nine  years.  Aside  from  his  consistent  preference,  his 
views  on  current  issues  were  also  those  of  a  gentle- 
man. Why,  it  was  difficult  to  determine.  But  he  sup- 
plied their  identity  himself  by  clinching  his  arguments 
with  the  question,  "I  don't  see,  sir,  how  a  gentleman 
can  think  otherwise." 

He  was  often  considered  old  fashioned.  But  he 
was  admired  for  this.  In  discussing  religion  he  would 
say: 

"I  am  not  one  to  quibble  with  my  Maker  or  with 
any  of  His  holy  decisions.  I  believe  absolutely  in  the 
gospel  of  infant  damnation.  A  religion  with  loopholes 
is  not  a  religion.  Either  there  is  a  God  or  there  isn't. 
If  there  is  and  you  accept  Him  then  you  accept  Him. 
You  do  not  argue  with  Him.  I  don't  see,  sir,  how  a 
gentleman  can  think  otherwise." 

Concerning  women  he  would  say: 

"Women  represent  the  finer  things  of  life.  Not 
for  them  the  turmoil  and  strife  of  economic  battle. 
Their  function  in  the  scheme  of  things  is  obvious,  sir. 
They  were  placed  in  the  world  by  a  wise  Maker  in 
order  to  bring  sweetness,  purity  and  light  to  bear 
upon  the  strivings  of  man.  A  woman's  hearthstone  is 
her  altar.  No,  they  are  not  the  equal  of  man.  They 
are  his  complement.  Man  is  gross.  Woman  is  fine 
and  sweet.  I  do  not  believe  in  any  of  these  disgusting 


GARGOYLES  55 

ideas  which  seek  to  lower  her  from  the  altar  she  now 
occupies  in  the  eyes  of  all  gentlemen." 

When  he  delivered  himself  of  these  utterances  he 
managed  always  to  give  to  them  the  certainty  of  a  man 
who  was  pronouncing  judgments.  He  was  admired 
for  this  certainty.  People  who  felt  doubts  in  their 
minds  were  always  pleased  to  hear  the  Judge  make 
pronouncements.  They  felt  that  it  was  impossible 
that  a  man  who  spoke  so  clearly,  whose  eye  looked 
so  unflinchingly  at  one  and  whose  manners  were  so 
perfect,  could  be  wrong. 

He  might  not  be  quite  as  modern  as  some  folks  but 
he  knew  what  he  was  talking  about.  He  was  the 
stentorian  and  impressive  interpreter  to  them  of  a 
world  they  understood.  The  ideas  which  flourished 
in  this  world  were  in  the  main  dead  or  dying.  But 
this  fact  only  lent  a  further  impressiveness  to  them 
and  to  him. 

People  who  [sought  to  argue  witfy  Judge  Smith 
usually  ended  by  stuttering  and  growing  red-faced. 
They  felt  as  they  talked  and  watched  his  blue  eyes  nar- 
rowing and  his  lips  tightening,  that  they  were  talking 
themselves  outside  of  the  pale.  His  silence  became 
an  excommunication.  They  read  ostracism  in  his 
frown  and  began  to  fumble  for  words,  trying  to  pro- 
pitiate him  in  one  breath  while  presenting  their  side 
of  the  case  to  him  in  another.  But  he  was  not  to  be 
deceived  by  this  ruse.  He  would  sit  poised  and  grimly 
attentive  like  a  man  judiciously  enduring  the  pres- 
ence of  blasphemy  but  under  great  emotional  strain. 
When  they  concluded,  it  was  frequently  unnecessary 
for  him  to  offer  counter  arguments.  His  opponents 
felt  their  defeat  in  the  knowledge  of  his  superiority, 


56  GARGOYLES 

not  as  a  thinker,  but  his  superiority  as  a  man  of  in- 
violable standards,  his  superiority  as  a  gentleman. 

In  eighteen  years,  of  close  contact  his  wife  had 
never  penetrated  the  shell  of  certitude  and  personal 
elegance  within  which  the  judge  moved.  During  their 
hours  of  intimacy  he  revealed  himself  as  a  man  of 
normal  passions.  But  even  during  these  he  was  solic- 
itous, unbending  and  a  gentleman. 

In  the  morning,  dressed,  his  white  napkin  tucked 
under  his  ruddy  face  he  would  be  again — Judge 
Smith. 

She  had  tried  several  times  early  in  their  marriage 
to  carry  the  intimacy  of  the  bedroom  to  the  breakfast 
table.  He  had  listened  to  her  endearments  and  fur- 
tive reminiscences  at  such  moments  with  eyes  seem- 
ingly incapable  of  comprehending  and  she  had  felt 
each  time  that  her  talk  was  obscene,  and  grown  fright- 
ened. 

Her  death  brought  no  perceptible  change  in  Judge 
Smith's  life.  He  continued  a  gentleman.  His  name 
appeared  at  intervals1  in  the  newspapers  as  having 
gone  to  Washington  to  argue  a  case  before  the  Su- 
preme Court.  His  friends  felt  on  reading  this  that  the 
Supreme  Court  was  an  institution  perfectly  fitted  to 
him.  It  was  hard  to  imagine  anybody  but  a  man  who 
looked  and  acted  like  Judge  Smith  arguing  a  case  in 
the  Supreme  Court. 

The  Smith  home,  a  brownstone  house  in  Prairie 
Avenue,  was  occupied  by  the  Judge,  his  daughter 
Henrietta  and  a  housekeeper.  Henrietta  had  finished 
boarding  school  at  nineteen.  She  had  since  then  bus- 
ied herself  as  an  assistant  housekeeper.  At  twenty- 
one  she  impressed  people  with  being  as  naive  and 


GARGOYLES  57 

fresh  as  a  girl  of  seventeen.    It  was  hard  to  think  of 
her  as  in  her  twenties. 

She  was  a  round-eyed,  round-faced  child  with 
fluffy  blonde  hair,  a  small-boned  body  and  a  general 
air  of  juvenile  fragility.  She  talked  very  little  but 
bubbled  with  exclamations  of  delight,  excitement,  en- 
thusiasm, astonishment.  These  she  was  continually 
employing,  regardless  of  their  incongruity.  She  greet- 
ed people  with  delight,  saying. 

"Oh!  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you!  Isn't  it  wonderful?" 
And  managed  to  scatter  a  dozen  exclamation  marks 
through  the  sentences.  If  one  said  to  her,  "Did  you 
see  Sothern  and  Marlowe  last  week?"  she  replied  ex- 
citedly, uOh  no!  I  missed  them!  I'm  so  sorry  I  Aren't 
they  wonderful?" 

Asked  for  an  opinion  of  a  new  hat  she  would  exude 
the  same  exclamation  marks  in,  "Oh!  It's  simply  too 
adorable  for  words!  I'm  just  mad  about  it!" 

And  to  such  a  remark  as,  "I  read  in  the  paper  the 
other  day  that  President  Roosevelt  went  fishing,"  she 
would  offer  a  wide-eyed  stare  and  exclaim,  overcome 
with  astonishment,  "Why!  Gracious!  Is  that  so!  Isn't 
that  awfully  funny!"  And  incomprehensibly,  she 
would  laugh  as  if  overcome  with  mirth. 

People  regarded  her  as  a  charmingly  vivacious, 
well-mannered  girl.  Her  exclamations  pleased  them 
by  lending  an  importance  to  their  small  talk — a  small 
talk  which  constituted  nearly  the  whole  of  their  con- 
versational lives.  Her  explosive  banalities  invigor- 
ated them.  They  said  of  her: 

"Judge  Smith's  daughter  is  so  alive.  She's  so  fresh 
and  young  and  so  enthusiastic." 

Henrietta    thought   her   father   the   greatest    and 


58  GARGOYLES 

most  important  man  in  the  world.  She  called  him 
"FATHer,"  stressing  the  first  syllable  in  a  manner 
that  distinguished  him  from  all  other  fathers.  Her 
admiration  satisfied  the  judge.  He  demanded  of  her 
only  obedience,  respect  and  chastity.  Since  she  gave 
him  these  he  looked  upon  her  as  a  shining  example  of 
true  womanhood. 

To  have  searched  for  an  inner  life  in  Henrietta 
would  have  been  difficult.  She  was  unaware  of  any 
other  Henrietta  than  the  surface  she  presented.  There 
was  no  secret  calculation  behind  her  manner.  Her 
body  at  twenty-one  was  still  as  undisturbed  by  desires 
as  her  mind  was  by  thought. 

She  was  physically  and  mentally  vacuous  and  the 
words  that  sometimes  ran  in  her  mind  were  parrotings 
of  things  she  had  heard.  Her  days  passed  in  a  pleas- 
ant maze  of  trifles  in  which  she  exhausted  her  ener- 
gies. Her  manner  of  enthusiasm  and  astonishment 
was  sincere.  In  her  exaggerated  exclamations  the 
energies  of  her  youth  merely  found  a  necessary  and  ut- 
terly respectable  outlet.  Her  banalities  were  too  vig- 
orous to  be  aught  but  authentic  and  original.  They 
were  the  enviably  correct  flower  of  her  personality. 

The  judge,  however,  had  a  side  to  his  nature  gen- 
erally unsuspected  among  his  friends.  He  was  a 
drinker.  He  owed  the  resonant  slowness  of  his  speech, 
in  fact,  to  the  ravages  of  drink.  His  poise,  his  intimi- 
dating deliberateness  were  likewise  the  result  of 
drink.  His  mind  had  been  somewhat  enervated  and 
the  spontaneity  of  his  nerves  somewhat  impaired  by 
thirty  years  of  intensive  drinking. 

His  words  followed  his  thoughts  slowly  and  his 
gestures  were  moments  behind  the  commands  of  his 


GARGOYLES  59 

brain  centers.  This  general  slowing  up,  the  result  of 
nerve  exhaustion  induced  by  his  orgies,  was  readily 
accepted  by  his  friends  as  an  impressiveness  of 
manner. 

In  arguments  he  found  himself  frequently  unable 
to  follow  the  nimble  phrases  of  an  opponent.  His 
resort  to  silence — a  silence  made  seemingly  pregnant 
by  certain  mannerisms  such  as  a  tightening  of  his 
lips,  a  drawing  down  of  his  nose,  and  a  narrowing  of 
his  eyes,  which  were  actually  an  effort  to  ward  off  a 
sleepiness  continually  hovering  over  him — this  silence 
was  a  successful  substitute. 

Mainly  the  judge  kept  his  orgies  to  himself.  Dur- 
ing his  married  life  he  had  adroitly  covered  them  up 
as  business  trips — cases  in  other  cities.  His  habit  was 
to  start  off  at  his  club,  to  sit  among  a  half  dozen  men 
whose  type  he  found  agreeable  and  drink  slowly  dur- 
ing the  early  part  of  the  evening.  The  talk  would 
gradually  veer  from  politics  and  legal  discussions  to 
women  and  anecdotes.  In  these  the  judge  excelled. 
His  fund  of  obscene  stories  was  amazing.  He  related 
them  with  relish  and  was  proud  of  an  ability  to  talk 
several  dialects  such  as  German,  Irish,  Yiddish,  Scotch 
and  Swedish. 

Among  his  club  cronies  his  drinking  and  alcoholic 
waggery  in  no~way  reflected  upon  his  status  as  a 
gentleman  of  absolute  respectability  and  discretion. 
In  fact  they  enhanced  it.  Among  the  judge's  friends 
were  lawyers  of  repute,  financiers,  and  owners  of  large 
manufacturing  plants.  They  were  men  usually  past 
fifty.  Their  comradeship  was  based  chiefly  on  their 
recognition  of  each  other's  prestige. 

The  publicity  that  had  attended  their  lives  gave 


60  GARGOYLES 

them  all  an  identical  stamp,  a  self-consciousness.  They 
felt  themselves  instinct  with  power,  and  bent  the 
greater  part  of  their  social  energies  to  appearing 
democratic.  They  desired,  as  much  as  they  desired 
anything,  the  flattery  which  lay  in  the  comment,  "Oh, 
he's  very  democratic.  Just  plain  ordinary  folks." 
They  felt  an  exciting  inference  in  this  criticism.  The 
inference  was  that,  considering  their  power  and  su- 
periority, one  had  to  marvel  at  the  fact  of  their  dis- 
simulation— their  democracy.  Thus  they  relished 
always  lending  themselves  to  projects,  to  situations 
which  earned  for  them  the  awed  avowal  of  inferiors 
that  they  were  ujust  folks." 

A  certain  shrewdness  as  well  as  flattery  which  in- 
spired them.  They  were  aware  that  people  often  pre- 
ferred confessing  the  superiority  of  their  betters  by 
admitting  in  awe  that  "after  all,  he's  just  like  us,  in 
many  respects." 

On  occasions  when  a  group  of  them  gathered  at 
their  club  they  stepped  partly  out  of  the  characteriza- 
tions of  great  men  which  they  affected  during  most  of 
their  day.  Drinking,  taking  their  turns  telling  stories 
or  pointing  up  incidents  by  the  "did  you  ever  hear  the 
one  about  the  Swede  who  went  to  a  picnic  with  his 
best  girl"  method,  they  always  welcomed  Judge  Smith. 
They  were  inclined  to  overlook  a  few  things  in  his 
favor.  If  he  did  seem  to  have  an  unnecessary  fund 
of  smutty  tales,  there  was  on  the  other  hand  the  fact 
that  he  was  a  judge  and  therefore  above  the  anecdotes 
he  told.  Like  the  judge,  they  too  were  men  with 
firmly  rooted  convictions  on  the  subject  of  morality 
and  if  they  laughed  at  stories  over  their  highballs  that 
flouted  decency  and  made  a  mock  of  virtue  there  was 


GARGOYLES  61 

this  exonerating  factor  to  be  considered.  Men  sure 
of  themselves  and  subscribing  unflinchingly  to  the  un- 
compromising standards  of  conduct  necessary  to  main- 
tain the  morale  of  the  community,  such  men  could 
without  danger  unbend  among  themselves.  For  mor- 
ality was  in  its  deepest  sense,  the  protection  of  others 
and  not  of  one's  self. 

As  the  group  thinned  out  on  such  occasions  Judge 
Smith  would  rise  and  in  the  manner  of  a  man  re- 
turning to  the  higher  and  more  important  duties  of 
life  bid  his  fellows  good-night. 

UA  very  pleasant  evening,  gentlemen,"  he  would 
pronounce,  "but  duty  calls." 

He  would  bow  stiffly.  Long  drinking  had  made 
him  master  to  an  astonishing  point  of  his  physical  be- 
ing while  under  the  influence  of  drink.  Bowing,  he 
would  walk  with  dignity  from  the  room,  emerge  into 
the  street  and  enter  one  of  the  cabs. 

A  half-hour  later  would  find  him  disporting  him- 
self in  one  of  his  favorite  disorderly  houses.  Here 
with  the  aid  of  further  drink  the  judge  became  a  curi- 
ous spectacle.  He  was  generally  hailed  in  the  places 
that  knew  him  as  "the  wild  old  boy".  And  his  arrival 
although  greeted  with  enthusiasm  was  a  matter  of 
secret  chagrin  to  the  landladies  of  his  acquaintance. 

It  was  his  habit  to  indulge  in  filthy  insults,  hurling 
astounding  obscenities  at  the  half-drunken  inmates. 
He  would  frequently  become  violent  and  throw  bottles 
around,  break  mirrors  and  electric  bulbs  and  smash 
chairs.  It  was  difficult  to  grow  angry  with  him  at  such 
times  because  he  covered  his  violences  and  insults 
with  a  continuous  roar  of  laughter  as  if  they  were  ac- 
tually the  product  of  a  vast  Rabelaisian  good  humor. 


62  GARGOYLES 

His  insults,  the  obscene  invective  he  hurled  at  the 
partners  in  his  orgy,  were  a  curious  phase.  They 
were  the  product  of  a  process  of  projection.  His 
normal  mind,  still  alive  under  the  paralysis  of  alco- 
hol, pronounced  these  outraged  denunciations  of  his 
behavior  against  himself.  His  virtue  and  decency 
cried  a  savage  disgust  and  he  must  rid  himself  of 
these  cries,  find  an  outlet  for  his  self-revulsions,  if 
he  desired  to  continue  the  debauch  which  was  also  an 
outlet  for  things  inside  him — things  that  slept  too 
violently  under  the  repressions  of  his  shell. 

Thus  he  rationalized  his  two  selves  by  giving  voice 
to  the  terrific  protests  of  his  virtue.  Simultaneously 
he  hid  himself  from  their  object  by  fastening  the  in- 
sults that  poured  into  his  thought  upon  those  around 
him.  The  women  explained  among  each  other  in  their 
own  words  that  he  was  a  filthy  old  man  and  ought  to 
be  ashamed  of  himself. 


It  was  afternoon.  Mrs.  Basine  listened  to  Judge 
Smith  explaining  the  new  moving  pictures  that  were 
being  shown  at  the  vaudeville  theaters. 

"It's  all  part  of  the  craze  for  new  things,"  he  was 
saying,  "and  these  awful  pictures  are  merely  a  fad. 
There  is  nothing  of  basic  appeal  for  Americans  in 
them  and  they'll  die  out  in  a  year  or  so." 

Mrs.  Basine  was  always  impressed  by  the  judge. 
He  had  three  days  before  been  on  one  of  his  debau- 
ches. His  manner  as  a  result  was  heavier  and  his 
words  slower.  After  one  of  his  wild  nights  the  judge 
sought  to  efface  the  memory  of  the  uncleanliness  by 
heightening  his  personal  appearance.  He  would  in- 


GARGOYLES  63 

dulge  himself  in  Turkish  baths,  facial  massages,  hair 
shampoos,  manicures  and  changes  of  linen  during  the 
day. 

The  sight  of  himself  immaculately  dressed,  spot- 
less, his  face,  collar,  nails  and  shoes  shining,  gave  him 
a  feeling  of  reassurance.  Clothes  and  appearance  had 
more  and  more  become  a  fetish  with  him  until  he  had 
developed  into  a  fop.  There  was  a  certain  passion  in 
his  demand  for  cleanliness.  A  disordered  tie  would 
mysteriously  depress  him.  A  spot  on  his  trousers  or 
shoes  would  preoccupy  him  until  its  removal.  Once 
while  on  his  way  from  the  theater  he  had  been  splash- 
ed by  a  horse.  Unaware  of  the  accident  at  the  time 
he  had  gone  to  a  restaurant.  There  he  had  noticed 
the  condition  of  his  clothes.  The  mud  had  reached 
as  high  as  his  shoulder.  A  nausea  overcome  him. 
He  hurried  to  the  lavatory  and  cleaned  his  clothes. 

His  daughter  admired  her  father  for  his  fastid- 
iousness. She  looked  upon  all  other  men  as  some- 
what sloppy  in  comparison. 

"It  isn't  just  that  father  dresses  well,"  she  said, 
"but  he's  so  particular  about  everything.  About  his 
plates  and  forks,  and  his  bedroom  must  be  bright  as 
a  new  pin.  Oh,  it's  just  wonderful  for  a  man  to  be 
thoroughly  clean  like  that." 

Although  the  judge  had  spoken  to  Mrs.  Basine  it 
was  her  son  who  answered. 

"I  saw  the  pictures  at  the  vaudeville  the  other 
evening,"  he  said,  "and  I  quite  agree  with  you,  Judge." 

The  judge  nodded  pleasantly.  He  liked  Basine  and 
had  already  prophesied  a  future  for  him.  Henrietta 
was  informing  Doris  of  the  trouble  they  were  having 
with  the  churck  choir. 


64  GARGOYLES 

uDr.  Blossom,'1  she  was  saying,  "is  just  absolutely 
at  his  wits'  end.  We  can't  get  anybody  .  .  .  anybody 
at  all  that's  at  all  suitable." 

"Mrs.  Gilchrist  and  Aubrey  are  coming  over,"  Mrs. 
Basine  remarked  to  the  judge.  She  was  unable  to  keep 
a  sound  of  pride  out  of  her  voice. 

UA  very  fine  woman.  An  exceptionally  fine  woman," 
he  answered.  Mrs.  Basine  nodded. 

Basine  sat  down  beside  his  sister  Doris.  He  was 
interested  in  Henrietta.  The  news  of  her  approach- 
ing engagement  had  exhilarated  this  interest.  He  had 
been  a  half-hearted  wooer  himself  when  he  first  came 
out  of  college.  As  she  rattled  on  he  was  thinking,  "She 
has  nice  eyes.  She  probably  doesn't  love  Aubrey." 
He  thought  of  Aubrey.  A  putty-faced,  swell-headed 
fool.  He  could  put  it  all  over  him,  even  as  a  writer, 
if  he  wanted  to. 

"I  hear,"  he  said  aloud,  "that  you  and  Aubrey  are 
engaged  or  almost  engaged." 

"Why  the  idea!  Gracious!"  A  disturbed  giggle. 
"Where  on  earth  did  you  hear  that!  Father  hasn't 
announced  it  yet." 

"A  little  bird,"  smiled  Basine.  Doris  looked  at  him 
and  frowned. 

"What  do  you  say  we  pop  some  corn,"  he  announc- 
ed. 

One  of  Basine's  most  engaging  facilities  was  an 
ability  to  reflect  in  his  own  words  and  actions  the 
character  of  those  to  whom  he  talked.  Judge  Smith 
regarded  him  as  a  young  man  of  stable  ideas  and  pro- 
found seriousness.  Henrietta  looked  upon  him  as  a 
charming,  light-hearted  youth  who  was  able  "to  play." 
There  were  others  to  whom  he  appealed  separately 


GARGOYLES  65 

as  a  young  man  of  culture,  modern  to  his  finger  tips; 
as  a  man  of  pious  kindliness;  as  a  man  interested  ex- 
clusively in  politics,  in  economics,  in.  literature,  in 
women.  His  pose  was  seemingly  at  the  mercy  of  his 
audience.  He  did  not  deliberately  seek  to  make  him- 
self agreeable  by  presenting  exteriors  acceptable  to 
his  friends.  His  proteanism  was  in  the  main  uncon- 
scious. It  was  the  result  of  an  underlying  desire  to 
impress  men  and  women  he  knew  with  his  superiority. 

He  had  found  instinctively  that  a  short  cut  to  such 
impression  was  not  contradictions  but  agreement.  But 
he  would  not  merely  say  uyes"  and  please  his  listener 
by  subscribing  whole-heartedly  to  the  ideas  or  points 
of  view  under  discussion.  He  would  take  these  ideas 
and  points  of  view  and  develop  them,  show  with  a 
sincere  creative  enthusiasm  why  they  were  correct  and 
how  astoundingly  correct  they  were. 

He  was  usually  cleverer  than  the  people  with  whom 
he  agreed.  This  made  it  possible  for  him  to  develop 
their  ideas,  to  add  to  them,  supply  them  with  nuances 
and  far-reaching  overtones  of  which  their  origina- 
tors had  had  no  inkling.  When  he  had  finished  they 
would  find  themselves  warmly  applauding  what  he  had 
said,  admiring  his  sanity  and  intelligence. 

It  was  no  longer  Basine  who  agreed  with  them. 
They  agreed  with  Basine  and  each  of  them  went  away 
saying,  "A  remarkable  young  man.  Full  of  very  fine, 
worth-while  ideas  and  able  to  express  himself." 

They  were  conscious  while  praising  him  that  they 
were  also  praising  themselves.  Although  they  were 
unaware  of  the  adroit  theft  committed  by  Basine  and 
unable  to  follow  the  way  in  which  he  filched  their 
little  prejudices  and  inflated  them  to  noble  propor- 


66  GARGOYLES 

tions  with  his  cleverness,  they  felt  a  kinship  with  the 
young  man.  Their  inferior  egoism  did  not  demand 
recognition  as  collaborator.  They  were  warmed  with 
the  emotion  of  being  en  rapport  with  someone  whom 
they  admired.  So  often  clever  people  were  people 
with  whom,  somehow,  one  had  little  or  nothing  in 
common.  But  Basine  was  a  clever  person  with  whom 
everyone  seemingly  had  everything  in  common.  And 
they  were  delighted  to  have  things  in  common  with 
a  clever  man. 

There  were  occasions  on  which  Basine's  cleverness 
was  put  to  a  difficult  test.  These  came  when  a  number 
of  people,  each  of  whom  knew  him  differently,  to  each 
of  whom  he  had  identified  himself  as  a  champion  of 
divergent  opinions,  assembled  in  his  presence.  Bas- 
ine, it  usually  happened,  was  the  friend  in  common 
and  therefore  the  pivot  of  the  vague  debates  which 
sometimes  started — the  awkward  exchange  of  half- 
remembered  arguments  which  constituted  the  intel- 
lectual life  of  his  friends,  as  the  make-believe  of  "play- 
ing house"  had  constituted  their  adult  life  when  they 
were  children. 

But  at  such  times  Basine  revealed  his  interesting 
talents  as  a  compromiser,  fence  straddler,  pacifier. 
Without  espousing  any  of  the  sides  presented,  with- 
out denial  or  affirmation,  he  managed  to  convince  the 
assembledge  that  he  was  a  champion  of  all  and  de- 
tractor of  none.  He  pretended  a  worldly  tolerance, 
saying  such  things  as : 

"Well  now,  there  are  always  two  sides  to  a  question. 
And  a  man  who  closes  his  mind  to  either  side  is  likely 
as  not  to  find  himself  in  the  dark.  What  Henning 
says  is  interesting.  I  can  entirely  understand  it  and 


GARGOYLES  67 

see  the  reasons  for  it.  He  sees  the  thing  in  a  clear, 
definite  manner.  Yet  what  Stoefel  says  is  also  in- 
teresting and,  of  course,  entertaining.  I  don't  mean 
that  I  believe  two  sides  to  a  question  can  both  be  the 
right  sides.  But  it's  my  experience  that  there's  an 
element  of  truth  as  well  as  of  error  in  both  sides.  And 
I'm  not  so  convinced  that  Henning  and  Stoefel  actu- 
ally differ.  Often  people  meaning  the  same  thing  get 
into  violent  arguments  because  they  misunderstand 
each  other." 

In  this  way  he  would  convince  both  his  friends  that 
they  were  both  men  of  intelligence,  which  is  more  flat- 
tering than  being  merely  men  of  intelligent  views. 
And,  what  was  more  important,  he  would  give  the 
listeners  the  impression  of  a  calm,  deliberative  Basine, 
not  to  be  taken  in  by  the  tricks  of  prejudice  and  speech 
which  caused  men  to  knock  their  heads  together  in 
endless  argument. 

Henrietta  accompanied  him  into  the  kitchen  in  quest 
of  corn  to  pop.  Doris  remained  behind,  staring  dis- 
interestedly at  the  judge  who  was  talking  to  her 
mother.  She  had  noticed  something  about  the  man 
that  displeased  her.  She  kept  it,  however,  to  herself. 
When  he  shook  hands  with  her  he  assumed  a  paternal 
manner.  He  said  to  her: 

"Well,  my  dear  child,  and  how  are  you  today? 
Serious  as  ever,  I  see.  I  understand  that  you  and  my 
little  girl  had  quite  an  interesting  time  at  the  choir 
practice  Saturday  evening.  Dear  me,  you  will  both 
soon  be  grown  up  and  young  ladies  before  I'm  aware 
of  it." 

He  talked  with  a  kittenish  banter  in  his  voice  as  if 
he  were  patting  a  child  of  five  on  the  head.  But  he 


68  GARGOYLES 

held  her  hand  during  his  entire  speech  and  his  soft 
finger  tips  pressed  moistly  into  her  palm.  It  was  hard 
at  first  to  detect  but  after  a  long  time  Doris  under- 
stood. Fanny  had  told  her  in  an  unsolicited  confes- 
sion that  young  men  did  that  when  they  wanted  to 
be  familiar  with  a  girl.  It  was  a  familiarity  which 
only  bad  girls  understood.  Fanny  added  that  a  number 
of  nice  men  whom  she  never  would  have  suspected  of 
such  a  low  thing  had  done  that  to  her  hand  but  that 
the  way  to  get  the  better  of  them  was  merely  to  pre- 
tend you  didn't  know  anything  about  it. 

Doris,  disgusted  by  her  sister's  chatter,  had  re- 
membered Judge  Smith.  The  judge  always  did 
that,  .  .  .  moving  his  finger  tips  as  if  he  were  un- 
aware of  the  fact.  This  afternoon  he  had  done  it 
again.  She  had  never  been  able  to  see  the  judge  as 
her  mother  and  brother  saw  him.  To  Doris  there 
was  something  intangibly  repulsive  about  his  flabby, 
smooth-shaven  face,  about  his  shining  linen  and  delib- 
erate manner  that  impressed  everybody.  She  did  not 
resent  the  things  he  said.  To  these  she  was,  in  fact, 
indifferent.  But  the  man's  personality  awakened  a 
revulsion  in  her.  She  did  not  explain  it  to  herself.  She 
was  aware  only  that  she  felt  uncomfortable  when  he 
looked  at  her  and  that  when  he  beamed  his  kindliest 
or  boomed  most  virtuously,  she  felt  like  sinking  lower 
in  her  chair  and  contorting  her  face  ,'with  shame, 
not  for  herself  but  for  him. 

Basine  and  Henrietta  had  returned  to  the  room.  A 
grate  fire  was  burning  wanly.  Basine,  squatting  down 
like  an  elated  boy,  arranged  a  cushion  for  her. 

"Oh,  we've  forgotten  the  thingumabob,1*  he  ex- 
claimed, "come  help  me  find  that." 


GARGOYLES  69 

Henrietta  skipped  excitedly  after  him.  Moments 
like  this  were  dear  to  Henrietta.  Looking  for  thing- 
umabobs, planning  popcorn  feasts,  having  lots  of  fun 
and  in  a  way  that  was  intelligent.  In  the  kitchen  Bas- 
ine  searched  for  a  minute  and  then  turned  to  the  girl 
with  a  laugh. 

"I  wanted  to  ask  you  something,"  he  said.  "That's 
why  I  lured  you  out  again." 

"For  heaven's  sake !  Gracious  1  Aren't  you  ashamed 
of  yourself,  George  Basine!" 

She  laughed  with  him.  The  thought  had  occured  to 
him  that  it  would  be  interesting  to  take  Henrietta 
away  from  Aubrey.  He  didn't  want  her  himself  for 
any  particular  purpose.  She  was  not  a  girl  one  could 
seduce,  or  even  desired  to  seduce.  And  marriage  was 
miles  from  his  head. 

Yet  he  had  once  held  her  hand  while  sitting  on  her 
father's  porch  and  whispered  idiotic  things  to  her. 
He  had  made  love  to  her,  said  to  her,  "Henny  dear, 
I'm  wild  about  you."  It  annoyed  him  to  think  that 
Aubrey  Gilchrist  would  marry  her,  would  appropriate 
her  as  if  the  things  he,  Basine,  had  said  and  done 
were  of  no  possible  consequence.  In  addition  he  had 
always  disliked  Aubrey. 

"Henny,"  he  said  quickly,  he  had  called  her  Henny 
two  years  before,  "are  you  really  in  love  with  Au- 
brey?" 

Henrietta  made  a  face  and  swung  her  shoulders 
like  a  child  embarrassed. 

Like  Keegan,  he  was  physically  tired  from  his 
night's  debauch.  But  in  Basine  there  was  no  impulse 
to  repent.  As  he  stood  looking  at  the  girl  he  grew 
curiously  sensual  in  his  thought. 


70  GARGOYLES 

The  consciousness  of  his  deadened  nerves  was  an  ir- 
ritant to  his  vanity.  He  was  always  doing  things  he 
felt  disinclined  to  do,  as  a  result  of  his  constant  work 
of  idealization.  Also,  to  follow  one's  impulse  and 
act  logically  was  what  everyone  did  in  a  way.  If 
Hugh  Keegan  was  tired  he  sighed  and  said  so.  But 
Basine,  if  he  was  tired,  would  laugh  and  suggest  ad- 
ventures. If  Keegan  or  the  others  he  knew  were 
elated  over  something,  they  announced  it,  naively, 
like  children.  But  Basine  edited  his  elation  and  often 
pretended  to  be  bored.  And  when  he  was  actually 
bored  he  often  pretended  enthusiasm. 

Such  odd  perversions  had  become  a  habit  with 
Basine.  Behind  the  confusion  of  purpose  that  in- 
spired them  was  a  certainty  that  in  acting  the  way 
he  did  he  distinguished  himself  from  other  people. 
Often  no  one  was  aware,  of  course,  that  he  was  act- 
ing, that  his  enthusiasm  was  the  heroic  mask  of 
weariness.  But  Basine  was  enough  of  an  egoist  to 
enjoy  secretly  the  emotion  of  superiority. 

Because  he  was  tired  and  because  he  would  have 
preferred  ignoring  the  trim  figure  laughing,  beside 
him,  he  deliberately  took  her  hand  and  allowed  his 
smile  to  grow  serious.  Now  as  he  looked  at  her  and 
saw  her  eyes  soften,  his  vanity  clamored  for  satisfac- 
tion. It  was  one  of  the  moments  in  his  life  when 
his  vanity  most  desired  satisfaction,  proof  of  the  high 
opinions  he  held  of  himself.  He  was  tired,  bored 
and  without  impulses. 

To  dominate  others,  to  possess  himself  of  their 
regard  and  homage  was  the  goal  toward  which  he 
always  built.  Now  the  desire  to  possess  himself  of  the 


GARGOYLES  71 

regard  and  homage  of  the  girl  whose  hand  he  was 
holding  came  acutely  into  his  thought. 

"Henny,"  he  whispered,  "I'm  sorry  about  you  and 
Aubrey." 

"Why?" 

This  was  the  sort  of  boy  and  girl  scene  at  which 
she  was  almost  adept.  People  held  hands  and  even 
kissed  without  altering  the  correct  social  tone  or  con- 
tent of  their  talk. 

"Because,"  said  Basine,  "Oh  well,  because  I  love 
you." 

The  phrase  stirred,  as  it  always  did,  a  faint  emo- 
tion in  his  heart.  He  had  used  it  frequently,  even 
with  prostitutes,  and  it  had  always  given  him  a  fugi- 
tive sense  of  exaltation.  Walking  alone  in  the  street 
at  night  he  would  sometimes  whisper  aloud,  "I  love 
you,  George.  Oh,  I  love  you  so."  He  would  have 
no  one  in  mind  whom  he  might  be  quoting  at  the 
moment.  The  words  would  come  and  utter  them- 
selves and  give  him  a  sudden  lift  of  spirit.  It  was 
like  his  other  self-conversation  when  walking  along 
swiftly  in  the  street  he  would  would  begin  exclaiming 
under  his  breath,  "Wonderful  .  .  .  wonderful  .  .  . 
wonderful  .  .  ."  The  word  like  his  mysterious,  "I 
love  you,  George"  came  without  cause  or  relation  to 
his  thoughts  and  repeated  itself  on  his  lips. 

Henrietta  was  staring  at  him.  It  was  chiefly 
because  she  was  surprised.  She  remembered  that  they 
had  been  friends  once  and  held  hands  and  that  he  had 
said  things.  But  all  that  had  been  a  part  of  a  pretty 
game  one  played  with  boys,  because  they  liked  it  and 
because  it  was  rather  likable  in  itself.  She  was  sur- 
prised now  because  he  looked  sad.  Sadness  hi  her 


72  GARGOYLES 

mind  was  synonymous  with  seriousness.  People  were 
never  serious  unless  they  were  sad.  When  she  wanted 
to  be  serious  she  would  always  lower  her  eyes  and 
arrange  her  expression  as  if  she  were  going  to  weep. 
Then  people  understood  that  what  she  said  was  really 
truly  serious  and  not  just  part  of  the  game  people 
were  always  playing  among  themselves.  A  game  in 
which  nothing  was  serious  or  funny  or  anything — 
but  just  was.  Because  that  was  the  way  it  should  be. 

Basine  was  pulling  her  slowly  toward  him. 

"Don't  you  love  me?"  he  asked.  "Don't  you  love 
me  at  all?" 

He  was  talking  aloud  to  conceal  the  fact  that  he 
had  drawn  her  to  him  and  was  placing  his  arms 
around  her.  To  do  anything  like  that  in  silence  would 
have  frightened  Henrietta.  But  to  talk  while  one  was 
doing  it,  that  made  it  seem  less  definite.  One  could 
ignore  what  one  was  doing,  ignore  the  hands  pressing 
one's  shoulders  and  the  touching  of  bodies  by  pre- 
tending to  interest  one's  self  entirely  in  the  conver- 
sation. 

Basine  knew  this  because  he  had  made  love  to  girls 
and  taken  liberties.  As  long  as  he  kept  talking  and 
asking  questions  the  girl  would  pretend  she  was  so 
occupied  in  answering  the  questions  and  keeping  up 
socially  her  end  of  the  talk  that  she  was  oblivious  to 
the  liberties  that  were  being  taken  with  her. 

Henrietta  answered,  "Why  do  you  ask  that?  Do 
you  really  think  you  ought  to  ask  me  questions  like 
that,  George  Basine?" 

"Yes  I  do,"  he  said,  "why  shouldn't  I?" 

"Oh  because.   Because  you're  engaged  to  Marion." 

"Who  told  you  that?" 


GARGOYLES  73 

* 'I  know.  Anybody  could  know  that.   Aren't  you?" 

"No  more  than  you  are  to  Aubrey." 

"Gracious!  Aren't  you  the  clever  boy.  I  declare! 
Engaged  to  Aubrey  I  Heavens,  I'd  like  to  know  where 
you  heard  that." 

"A  little  bird  told  me." 

"It  did  not." 

"Yes  it  did." 

"You  know  better  than  that,  George  Basine.  I 
wish  you'd  tell  me  really." 

"Why  should  I." 

"I'd  like  to  know,  that's  why.  I  think  I  have  a  right 
to  know." 

"Oh  but  I  did  tell  you  something.  I  told  you  I  love 
you." 

"Why,  George  Basine  1" 

During  the  talk  Basine  had  moved  her  closer  to 
him.  His  arms  were  tightly  around  her  and  he  had 
kissed  her  eyes  and  cheeks  between  his  questions  and 
answers.  The  embrace  had  aroused  no  physical  de- 
sire in  him.  He  was  irritated  by  the  coolness  of  his 
nerves.  He  was  irritated  at  his  being  unable  to  feel 
anything  with  his  arms  around  a  pretty  girl.  Usually 
the  incident  would  have  reached  its  climax  with  the 
half  kiss  he  placed  on  her  mouth.  That  was  as  far 
as  good  girls  went.  At  this  point  they  ordinarily  said 
something  like,  "Listen,  I  want  to  tell  you  something. 
I  almost  forgot."  And  gently  detaching  themselves 
from  one's  arms,  continued  to  talk  in  the  same  tone 
they  had  used  during  the  embrace  about  some  event 
that  had  occurred  during  the  week. 

And  then  one  returned  to  the  sitting  room  and  went 
on  talking  casually  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  It 


74  GARGOYLES 

was  the  height  of  bad  taste  to  remind  a  good  girl  to- 
day that  one  had  kissed  her  yesterday  or  to  presume 
upon  it  in  any  way.  It  was  the  height  of  bad  taste 
also  to  resist  when  they  gently  pushed  one  away  and 
said  ,  "Listen,  I  want  to  tell  you  something.  I  almost 
forgot." 

Basine  knew  the  simple  technique  of  these  virginal 
intrigues.  Henrietta's  hands  were  pressing  him.  This 
was  the  signal  to  release  her  and  pretend  that  nothing 
had  happened.  Ordinarily  Basine  would  have  com- 
plied. He  had  no  interest  in  the  girl.  His  original 
impulse  to  take  her  from  Aubrey  had  slipped  from  his 
mind. 

But  he  had  grown  sad.  The  mild  sensual  moment 
he  would  usually  have  experienced  in  the  embrace  had 
been  missing.  His  tired  nerves  had  not  responded. 
Unable  to  exhilarate  his  senses  he  sought  to  make  up 
for  the  failure  by  treating  his  vanity  to  an  exhila- 
ration. This  exhilaration  would  come  if  the  girl  he 
was  holding  grew  suddenly  sad,  raised  wide  eyes  to 
him  and  in  a  shamed  voice  murmured,  "I  love  you, 
George.  Oh,  I  love  you  so." 

He  would  make  her  do  this. 

uOh,  Henny.  Why  don't  you  love  me?  I  want 
you  so  much  all  the  time." 

"Why  George  Basine  1" 

She  had  suspected  something  different  about  the 
game  when  it  started.  And  this  was  different.  Even 
with  Aubrey  it  had  not  been  as  different  as  this. 
Aubrey's  mother  and  her  father  had  decided  upon  the 
engagement  after  Aubrey  had  been  fussing  her  for  a 
few  weeks. 

But  this  was  different.    George  Basine  was  in  love 


GARGOYLES  75 

with  her!  She  had  always  liked  him  because  her 
father  said  he  was  a  fine,  promising  young  man  and 
because  he  knew  how  to  play,  and  was  really  like  her- 
self in  many  ways.  She  wondered  what  she  should  do. 
She  felt  worried  because  she  was  afraid  she  would 
say  something  that  wasn't  right. 

She  couldn't  ask  him  to  let  her  go  because  he  was 
only  holding  her  lightly  and  she  could  move  away  if 
she  wanted  to.  She  thought  his  eyes  were  sad  and 
she  felt  suddenly  sorry  for  him.  He  had  stopped  talk- 
ing and  his  eyes  were  sad.  They  were  looking  at  her 
and  they  made  her  feel  sad,  too.  Things  were  so  dif- 
ferent when  one  felt  sad.  Everything  seemed  to  go 
away  then  and  nothing  remained.  Everything  went 
away  and  left  one  a  little  frightened.  As  if  the  world 
were  unreal  and  everybody  was  unreal  and  nothing 
really  was. 

She  was  frightened  like  that  now.  Or  at  least  she 
thought  it  was  fear.  Then  she  saw  it  was  something 
else.  Her  heart  had  started  to  pound  hard  and  her 
throat  fluttered  inside.  No  one  had  ever  looked  at 
her  like  this.  So  seriously.  As  if  she  were  somebody 
very  serious.  It  made  her  feel  strange.  She  grew  dizzy 
and  her  arms  felt  weak.  She  whispered  his  name 
and  his  hands  crept  over  her  cheeks.  This  thrilled 
her  as  if  there  were  electricity  in  his  fingers.  And 
frightened  her  again.  But  it  was  nice.  Like  being  a 
little  girl,  almost  a  baby,  and  falling  into  an  older 
man's  arms — her  father's  arms.  She  could  almost  re- 
member being  a  little  girl  and  lying  in  her  father's 
arms. 

uDo  you  love  me?" 

She  would  answer  this  time. 


76  GARGOYLES 

"Yes,"  she  said.     "Oh  George." 

She  hid  her  face  against  his  coat.  Basine  was  care- 
ful not  to  embrace  her.  Her  "yes"  had  given  him  an 
inexplicable  moment.  He  had  felt  himself  expand 
under  it.  In  her  unexpected  submission — he  had 
never  jdreamed  of  such  a  thing  ten  minutes  ago — she 
became  suddenly  someone  who  was  very  rare  and 
sweet.  He  was  still  utterly  oblivious  of  her  and  had 
it  turned  out  to  be  Marion  in  his  arms  instead  of 
Henrietta  the  difference  would  have  made  no  change 
in  him.  The  thing  that  was  rare  and  sweet  was  the 
exhilaration  in  his  senses — a  purely  spiritual  exhila- 
ration. He  enjoyed  it  as  one  might  enjoy  some  unfore- 
seen and  startling  gift. 

He  grew  tender.  He  wanted  to  kiss  the  eyes  and 
hair  of  her  who  had  given  this  gift  to  him — tke  thing 
which  felt  so  warm  in  his  heart  and  tingled  so  pleas- 
antly in  his  thought.  He  must  reward  her  somehow 
for  having  stirred  in  him  this  delicious  excitement,  re- 
ward her  for  the  sweet  surfeit  her  surrender  had  given 
his  vanity.  For  a  moment  bewildered  by  this  inner  desire 
to  express  the  gratitude  he  felt,  he  stood  trembling. 

"Oh,  I  love  you  so,  my  darling,"  he  whispered. 
"You're  so  beautiful." 

It  was  her  reward  for  having  surrendered  to  his 
unspoken  demand.  It  was  an  expression  of  the  over- 
whelming generosity  that  choked  him.  He  found  in 
the  saying  of  the  words  a  sweetness  almost  as  keen  as 
her  surrender  had  afforded  him.  To  hear  himself  say 
to  someone,  "I  love  you,"  was  mysteriously  exhilarat- 
ing. The  thrill  that  accompanied  his  bestowal  of 
largesse  excited  him  to  further  experiment.  He  was 
not  carried  away  but  he  relished  the  emotions  between 


GARGOYLES  77 

them,  the  sense  of  having  triumphed  and  the  pro- 
voking sense  of  bestowing  grandiose  reward. 

"Darling,  tell  me  ...  please  tell  me — will  you 
marry  me? 

"Oh  George!" 

"Tell  me  ...  tell  me  .  .  ." 

He  was  acting  now,  making  his  voice  dramatic,  pre- 
tending uncontrolable  longings.  She  must  say  "Yes." 
He  wanted  her  to  and  she  must.  He  did  not  want  to 
marry  her.  The  thought  had  never  occured  to  him. 
But  it  would  be  unbearable  now  unless  she  said  "Yes." 
He  must  pretend  and  act  and  make  the  thing  end  by 
her  saying  "Yes." 

"Oh,  I  can't  tell  you,  George  dear." 

"You  must,  please  .  .  ." 

He  had  decided  now  finally  to  make  her.  A  con- 
test of  wills.  If  he  wanted  a  yes  there  must  be  a  yes. 
Because  he  wanted  it.  His  arms  crushed  her.  He 
fastened  against  her.  He  felt  her  resisting.  There 
was  still  no  desire  in  him.  His  arms  were  still  dead. 
But  he  could  brook  no  resistance.  The  fact  of  resist- 
ance was  unimportant  but  the  idea  of  being  resisted 
fired  him  with  a  passion  entirely  cerebral.  He  would 
warm  her  into  saying  yes,  stir  her  senses,  make  her 
yield  and  her  head  swim  until  she  said  yes. 

"I  love  you.    Please  say  it.    Say  yes." 

Yes  to  what?  Henrietta  for  an  instant  awoke  from 
the  confusions  of  the  past  few  minutes.  Her  moral- 
ity, training,  code  of  life  and  all  sat  up  like  a  wary 
censor  and  surveyed  the  scene.  The  censor  nodded  an 
affirmation.  It  was  all  right.  Go  ahead.  With  this 
affirmation  her  body  took  fire.  The  weakness  she  had 
been  struggling  against  became  a  beautiful  enervation 


78  GARGOYLES 

— a  lassitude  that  swept  her  unresistingly  forward. 
She  had  never  done  this  before.  She  struggled  for 
a  moment  to  recall  the  censor — the  thing  that  had 
always  directed  her.  But  she  seemed  to  have  been 
deserted.  She  was  alone  with  sensations. 

Her  virginal  mind  was  unable  to  identify  the  ex- 
citement rising  in  her.  She  waited  while  his  caresses 
grew  bolder.  Then  in  a  panic,  born  of  a  dim  real- 
ization, she  flung  her  arms  passionately  around  Basine 
and  sobbed. 

uYes  ...  Yes  ...  Oh  George  ...  1  will  .  .  ." 
She  felt  at  once  that  she  had  said  it  just  in  time — 
that  it  would  have  been  sinful  to  continue  another 
moment  without  promising  she  would  marry  him. 

Basine  released  her  slowly.  The  incident  abruptly 
was  over.  He  had  in  fact  lost  interest  in  it  immedi- 
ately before  she  had  spoken.  The  thrill  had  come, 
developed  and  gone — a  spiritual  exaltation  which  he 
had  enjoyed  to  the  utmost. 

But  now  it  was  over.  His  vanity,  surfeited,  had 
withdrawn  from  the  situation.  He  was  surprised  to 
find  himself  looking  at  the  girl  with  utter  dispassion, 
as  if  nothing  had  happened. 

Inwardly  he  was  amused.  Such  things  were  amus- 
ing, in  a  way.  Moments  in  which  one  saw  oneself  as 
an  outrageous  actor,  doing  something  ridiculous.  It 
was  like  that  now.  Absurd.  But  it  had  been  pleasant. 
Curious,  how  pleasant.  However,  that  was  over. 
Henrietta  would  of  course  forget  about  it.  And  he, 
he  was  prepared  to  return  to  the  library  and  go  on 
popping  corn  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  absolutely 
nothing. 

But  Henrietta  leaned  weakly  against  hn  arm. 


GARGOYLES  79 

"Oh  George,  darling.    Do  you  really  love  me?" 

He  answered  out  of  a  social  respect  for  consistency 
and  nothing  else.  He  thought  the  question  rather 
tactless.  Of  course  he  didn't  love  her  and  she  should 
have  known  better  than  to  ask  it.  It  had  just  been  a 
game  they  had  played  while  looking  for  the  thingum- 
abob. 

"Yes,  Henny,  of  course." 

Her  eyes  were  wide  and  her  lips  quivered.  She 
was  looking  at  him  as  if  he  were  doing  something 
remarkable  and  she  overcome  with  astonishment.  For 
an  instant  Basine  wondered  why  the  deuce  she  looked 
that  way.  Then  he  felt  an  unexpected  chill  that  he 
dismissed  promptly  with  an  inwardly  reassuring  smile 
as  he  heard  her  saying. 

"Oh,  we'll  be  so  happy  together  when  we're  mar- 
ried. Isn't  it  wonderful,  just  too  wonderful  for  words 
to  be  married — together.  Oh  George!  I'm  so  happy 
...  I  love  you  so  much.  And  father  will  be  so  .  .  ." 


They  had  not  expected  Mr.  Gilchrist  to  come.  Mr. 
Gilchrist  was  an  undersized,  mild  little  man  with 
greying  sideburns.  When  he  was  alone  he  read  a 
great  deal. 

He  had  made  money  in  the  selling  of  expensive 
furniture.  He  was  part  owner  of  a  store  in  Wabash 
Avenue.  It  was  generally  understood  that  people  with 
taste  patronized  the  Gilchrist-Warren  establishment. 

He  arrived  at  the  Basines'  with  his  wife  and  his  son 
Aubrey.  Keegan  and  Fanny  had  returned  from  a  long 
walk.  They  and  the  judge,  Henrietta,  Basine  and  his 
mother  and  sister  Doris  all  expressed  surprise  at  see- 


80  GARGOYLES 

ing  Mr.  Gilchrist.  There  was  always  about  Mr.  Gil- 
christ  the  air  of  a  museum  piece — a  quaint  museum 
piece  such  as  a  keen  but  sentimental  collector  might 
delight  in. 

The  exclamations  of  surprise  embarrassed  the  little 
man  and  he  stood  fingering  his  sideburns  and  trying 
to  smile  in  just  the  correct  way.  Mr.  Gilchrist's  ar- 
rival anywhere  always  precipitated  this  air  of  surprise. 
People  said,  "Why,  Mr.  Gilchrist!  Awfully  glad  to 
see  you!  Haven't  seen  you  for  an  age.  Well!  How 
are  you?" 

This  was  as  if  they  were  extremely  surprised.  But 
they  weren't.  They  were  merely  annoyed,  upset,  vague- 
ly hostile  and  condescending.  And  these  emotions 
inspired  by  the  innocent  Mr.  Gilchrist  could  be  best 
concealed  by  the  feigning  of  a  correct  social  astonish- 
ment. 

To  the  queries  shot  at  him  Mr.  Gilchrist  answered, 
"Very  well,  thank  you.  Thank  you.  Very  well,  thank 
you.n 

After  greeting  him  with  these  exclamation  points, 
people  immediately  forgot  he  was  present.  Mr.  Gil- 
christ  would  sit  the  rest  of  the  evening  ignored  by 
everybody  and  trying  to  the  end  to  smile  in  just  the 
correct  way. 

Inside  Mr.  Gilchrist  were  many  little  lonelinesses. 
His  head  was  full  of  things  he  had  read,  of  plots,  of 
great  characters,  even  of  epigrams  and  biting  icono- 
clasms.  -When  people  talked  he  did  his  best  to  be 
attentive.  And  if  they  talked  about  things  that  in- 
terested him — the  Kings  of  France,  the  Italian  wars 
of  the  fifteenth  century,  the  topography  of  early  Lon- 


GARGOYLES  81 

don  and  kindred  subjects — his  face  would  tremble 
with  enthusiasms. 

He  would  listen,  his  eyes  questing  eagerly  for  epi- 
grams, for  illuminating  sentences  he  might  contribute. 
But  his  unegoistic  love  for  the  subject  would  make  him 
inarticulate.  His  eyes  that  had  seemed  about  to  speak 
of  themselves,  that  had  seemed  laden  with  excited  in- 
formations would  close  and  a  chuckle  would  come 
from  his  lips.  The  Caesars,  the  Borgias,  the  Medicis, 
the  Bourbons,  the  Valois,  Savonarola,  Richelieu,  the 
various  Charles,  Phillips,  Williams,  Henrys,  the 
plumed  headliners  of  history  around  whom  had  cen- 
tered the  hurdy-gurdy  intrigues,  the  circus  romances 
and  wars  of  vanished  centuries — these  were  the  hail- 
fellows  of  his  imagination. 

But  people  seldom  talked  of  these  names.  People 
were  more  interested  in  contemporary  topics.  He  did 
his  best  to  be  attentive.  But  his  thought  played  truant 
and  before  he  knew  it  he  would  be  going  over 
secretly  certain  things  in  his  head.  Villon,  Marlowe, 
Balzac,  Dumas,  Gautier,  Suetonius — there  was  a  rab- 
ble of  them  continually  arguing  and  declaiming  in  Mr. 
Gilchrist's  head. 

He  liked  to  half  close  his  eyes  and  imagine  what  the 
great  names  used  to  have  for  breakfast,  what  the 
great  names  would  say  if  he  were  to  enter  their  pres- 
ence or  if  they  were  to  come  into  this  room.  He  liked 
to  bring  up  in  his  mind  pictures  of  old  Paris,  Lon- 
don, Florence,  Avignon,  Vienna  with  their  lopsided 
roofs,  winding  alleys,  night  watchmen  and  king's 
guards.  He  could  sit  a  whole  evening  this  way  think- 
ing, "then  he  came  to  an  old  Inn  and  there  were  lights 
inside.  People  drinking  inside,  telling  stories  and 


82  GARGOYLES 

laughing.  The  inn-keeper  was  a  man  named  Simon. 
The  curious  stranger  looked  about  him  with  an  im- 
perious eye  .  .  ." 

These  words  murmuring  in  his  head  would  conjure 
up  the  picture  and  there  would  be  no  further  need  for 
words.  He  was  content  to  sit  in  the  old  inn,  noticing 
its  quaint  decorations,  its  quaint  but  romantic  inmates. 
Adventures  would  follow,  strange  episodes,  denoue- 
ments, climaxes — all  without  words  as  if  he  were 
watching  a  cinemategraph.  His  attempted  smile  would 
remain — a  smile  that  concealed  the  fact  he  was  neither 
smiling  at  those  around  him  nor  aware  of  what 
they  were  saying.  For  he  would  only  half  hear  the 
chatter  of  the  room  and  now  and  then  nod  his  head 
vaguely  at  some  question  that  people  were  answering 
— as  if  he  too  were  answering  it. 

He  was  almost  sixty,  and  lonely  because  he  knew 
of  no  one  to  whom  he  could  talk.  His  wife  in  partic- 
ular was  a  person  to  whom  he  never  dreamed  of  talk- 
ing. He  had  only  a  dim  idea  of  what  he  wanted  to 
say  to  someone.  But  all  his  life  he  had  been  hoping 
to  meet  this  one  who  would  be  like  himself.  This 
someone  would  be  a  friend  whom  he  could  take  with 
him  into  places  like  the  old  inn  and  the  crazily  twist- 
ing streets  of  old  London  or  Paris. 

His  days  and  years  passed  however  without  bring- 
ing him  this  companion.  And  outwardly  he  remained 
a  mild  little  figure  with  sideburns,  kindly  tolerant  to- 
ward everyone. 

When  his  dreams  left  him  long  enough  to  enable 
him  to  notice  closely  those  about  him,  a  feeling  of 
sadness  would  come.  He  would  feel  sorry  for  the 
men  and  women  he  saw  gesturing  and  heard  talking 


GARGOYLES  83 

and  laughing.  He  thought  they  must  be  like  himself 
— looking  for  something.  His  faded  eyes  would  peer 
caressingly  from  behind  his  glasses  and  he  would 
make  simple  little  remarks  in  an  apologetic  voice.  He 
would  ask  what  they  had  been  doing  and  when  they 
answered  in  their  careless,  matter-of-fact  ways  he 
would  nod  hopefully  and  appear  pleased. 

To  see  Mr.  Gilchrist  in  the  midst  of  his  family  was 
to  be  convinced  of  the  plausibility  of  immaculate  con- 
ception. It  was  difficult  imagining  Mr.  Gilchrist  ever 
having  done  anything  which  might  have  resulted  in 
fatherhood.  But  more  than  that,  it  was  impossible 
even  suggesting  to  oneself  that  his  wife  had  ever  re- 
ceived the  embraces  of  a  man,  had  ever  so  far  for- 
gotten the  proprieties  as  to  permit  herself  to  be  trap- 
ped alone  with  a  man. 

Thus  the  presence  of  Aubrey,  their  son,  became  in- 
congruous. And  Aubrey  himself  helped  this  illusion. 
He  was  a  young  man  who  looked  incongruous.  He 
seemed  like  a  hoax  or  at  least  a  caricature.  He  had 
enormous  feet  and  ungainly  legs,  large  hands  and  pipe- 
stem  arms,  hips  like  a  woman  and  a  face  capriciously 
modeled  out  of  soft  putty.  His  ugliness  by  itself  would 
have  been  whimsicial — his  protruding  eyes,  long 
pointed  nose,  uneven  cheeks  and  bulbous  chin  hinted 
at  something  waggish. 

But  Aubrey  had  triumphed  over  his  physical  self. 
He  had  with  the  aid  of  a  pair  of  large  glasses  from 
which  dangled  a  black  silk  cord,  and  by  holding  his 
head  thrown  back  as  if  there  were  a  crick  in  his  neck, 
acquired  an  air  of  dignity.  It  was  his  habit  to  glower 
with  dignity,  to  stare  with  dignity  and  to  preserve  a 
dignified  inanimation  when  he  was  silent.  He  was 


84  GARGOYLES 

pigeon  breasted  and  this  helped.  In  fact  his  many 
slight  deformities  seemed  all  to  contribute  somehow 
toward  making  him  a  man  of  inspiring  dignity. 

People  had  little  use  for  Mr.  Gilchrist,  his  father. 
He  was,  of  course,  wealthy  but  not  wealthy  enough  to 
"earn  the  regard  of  the  poor.  They  discussed  him,  say- 
ing, "He's  not  so  simple  as  he  pretends  he  is.  Any 
man  who's  made  a  pile  like  old  Gilchrist  in  the  furni- 
ture business  has  a  pretty  smart  head." 

And  they  added  that  they  wouldn't  be  surprised  if 
something  eventually  were  found  out  about  old  man 
Gilchrist.  He  had  a  past.  Of  this  people  were  con- 
vinced. It  was  his  wife's  position  and  the  fear  of  her 
personality  that  protected  Mr.  Gilchrist  from,'  the 
downright  attacks  of  rumor.  Any  man  who  pretend- 
ed to  be  as  kindly  as  Mr.  Gilchrist  and  who  talked  so 
tolerantly  about  everybody  and  everything  was,  you 
could  bank  on  it,  a  sly  rogue  afraid  to  say  what  he 
thought  because  he  himself  was  guilty  of  worse  sins 
than  those  under  discussion. 

Mr.  Gilchrist,  by  seeming  above  the,  social  agi- 
tations surrounding  him  came  to  appear  as  one  who 
looked  down  tolerantly  upon  inferiors — and  this  an- 
noyed people.  Who  was  Mr.  Gilchrist  and  what  had 
he  done  that  he  should  be  giving  himself  airs?  Of 
course — there  was  Aubrey  and  .  .  . 

Aubrey  was  aloof  and  dignified.  But  that  was  to 
be  expected  of  a  man  who  worked  with  his  brain  all 
the  time,  inventing  plots  and  characters — his  friends 
explained.  In  fact  Aubrey's  silences  thrilled  them 
even  more  than  his  talk.  They  felt,  when  he  sat  silent, 
that  they  were  witnessing  the  birth  in  his  head  of 
some  great  idea  which  they  would  later  read  in  a 


GARGOYLES  85 

book.  Aubrey  was  a  man  of  superior  qualities  and  to 
bask  in  the  presence  of  a  superior  was  to  partake  of 
his  superiority. 

Aubrey's  superiority  consisted,  so  far  as  Aubrey 
was  concerned,  of  wearing  the  proper  kind  of  eye- 
glasses, keeping  his  neck  stiff,  refraining  from  giving 
utterance  to  all  the  asininities  which  crowded  his 
tongue  and  writing  romances  containing  heroes  with 
whom  a  half-million  women  readers  had  imaginary 
affairs  every  night  and  heroines  whom  another  half- 
million  men  ravished  in  their  dreams.  For  Aubrey 
was  a  celebrated  popular  fiction  writer.  To  conceal 
the  horrible  reasons  which  made  for  the  celebrity  of 
Aubrey's  fiction,  the  army  of  literary  morons  who  suc- 
cumbed to  its  influence  grew  louder  and  louder  in  their 
protestations  that  Aubrey  was  a  great  moral  writer. 
They  pointed  out  that  here  was  a  man  whose  heroines 
were  pure,  whose  heroes  were  noble  and  virtuous — 
neglecting  to  add  that  these  were  the  only  kind  of 
phantoms  which  could  penetrate  the  guard  of  their 
own  puritanism  and  stir  the  erotic  impulses  beneath. 

Aubrey's  superiority  was,  for  the  most  part,  a  state 
of  mind  that  existed  among  the  people  who  knew  him 
or  had  heard  of  him  or  read  of  him.  And  this  attitude 
toward  him  became  part  of  Aubrey.  He  adopted  it 
as  the  major  side  of  his  character  and  lived  chiefly  in 
the  opinions  of  others.  His  introspection  consisted  of 
reading  press  notices  about  himself  and  thinking  of 
what  other  people  thought  of  him.  Thus  to  under- 
stand Aubrey  it  was  necessary  to  go  outside  him  and 
to  investigate  this  external  state  of  mind,  the  ready- 
made  robes  of  purple  in  which  his  little  thoughts  strut- 
ted through  the  day. 


86  GARGOYLES 

The  people  in  whose  acclaim  Aubrey  robed  himself 
were  varied  and  many  but  they  inhabited  an  identical 
psychological  stratum.  They  believed  firmly  that  all 
artists  and  writers  were  poor,  starving,  unhappy  crea- 
tures. 

This  belief  was  borne  out  in  their  minds  by  history 
— such  history  as  they  permitted  themselves  to  know. 
History  was  continually  telling  of  geniuses  who  died 
in  garrets,  of  great  minds  that  could  not  make  enough 
money  to  feed  or  clothe  their  bodies.  In  fact  one  of 
the  shrewdest  ways  to  tell  whether  a  man  was  a  gen- 
ius— that  is,  had  been  a  genius — was  to  determine 
whether  he  had  been  neglected  during  his  life  and  died 
of  malnutrition  and  disappointment. 

The  people  who  acclaimed  Aubrey  found  a  com- 
pensation in  this.  They  liked  to  assure  themselves 
that  geniuses  starved  to  death.  This  compensated 
them  for  the  fact  that  they  themselves  were  not 
geniuses.  It  made  them  feel  that  it  was  actually  a 
vital  misfortune  to  be  gifted,  since  being  gifted  meant 
to  suffer  the  neglect  of  one's  fellows  and  the  pangs  of 
hunger. 

But  the  knowledge  that  genius  was  neglected  and 
hungry  in  no  way  inspired  them  to  remedy  the  situ- 
ation by  recognizing  its  presence  and  feeding  it.  To 
the  contrary  they  were  determined  to  see  that  it  re- 
mained neglected  and  hungry.  The  idea  of  struggling 
long-haired  poets  dressed  in  rags  pleased  them.  The 
idea  of  long-haired  painters  living  on  crumbs  in  attics 
gave  them  peculiar  satisfaction. 

Geniuses  were  people  different  from  themselves. 
They  believed  in  different  things  and  pretended  to  be 
excited  by  different  emotions  and  lived  different  lives. 


GARGOYLES  87 

And  the  people  who  acclaimed  Aubrey  were  pleased 
to  know  that  there  was  a  penalty  attached  to  being 
different  from  themselves  and  they  were  interested  in 
seeing  that  this  penalty  was  not  removed.  By  penal- 
izing the  different  ones  whom  they  sensed  as  super- 
iors, they  increased  the  value  of  their  own  inferior- 
ities. 

Yet  they  acclaimed  Aubrey  and  there  was  no  malice 
in  their  acclaim.  This  was  a  phenomenon  that  had 
once  startled  Aubrey.  Long  ago,  when  he  had  first 
started  to  write,  his  family's  friends  had  said,  "Poor 
boy,  he'll  starve  to  death.  There's  no  money  in  being 
an  author  and  you  lead  a  terrible  life." 

But  Aubrey  had  gone  ahead  and  remained  an  au- 
thor. He  had  written,  at  the  beginning,  rather  bit- 
ing if  sophomoric  things,  inspired  by  the  malice  he 
sensed  toward  his  profession.  But  the  inspiration  had 
not  been  sufficiently  strong  to  handicap  him.  When 
success  had  come  and  his  name  was  emerging,  the 
people  who  knew  him  and  who  had  talked  maliciously 
about  his  trying  to  be  an  author,  were  the  first  to 
acclaim  him.  This  thing  had  confused  Aubrey.  He 
had  felt  that  the  public  was  a  curious  institution  and 
he  had  for  a  few  months  wondered  about  it. 

People  sneered  at  struggling  writers  and  referred 
with  withering  humor  to  art  as  uall  bunk"  and  indig- 
nantly denounced  its  immorality.  Then  when  one  put 
oneself  over  despite  their  sneers  they  turned  around 
and  congratulated  one  as  if  one  had  done  something 
of  which  they  heartily  approved.  It  was  as  if  thev 
tried  to  make  up  for  their  previous  attitude,  and  for 
a  few  months  Aubrey  cherished  a  cynical  image  of  the 
public.  It  was  a  great  bully  that  spat  and  snarled  at 


88  GARGOYLES 

genius,  refusing  to  recognize  it  and  making  it  a  laugh- 
ing stock  wherever  it  could.  But  as  soon  as  genius 
came  through,  this  same  bully  of  a  public  turned 
around  and  prostrated  itself  and  worshipped  blindly 
at  its  feet. 

Then  Aubrey  had  spent  the  few  months  wondering 
why  this  was  so.  But  he  had  become  too  busy  to  do 
much  thinking.  His  publishers  were  demanding  more 
work — so  he  let  other  matters  drop.  His  curiosity  had 
carried  him  to  the  brink  of  an  idea  and  he  had  some- 
what impatiently  turned  his  back  on  it.  He  had  felt 
that  to  think  as  he  was  thinking  about  people  who 
were  praising  him  and  buying  his  books,  was  to  play 
the  part  of  an  ungrateful  cad. 

The  idea  that  had  come  dangerously  close  to  Au- 
brey's consciousness  was  the  curious  notion  that  people 
resented  acclaiming  anybody  like  themselves.  The 
lucky  ones  who  secured  their  hurrah  became  in  their 
eyes  no  longer  normal  humans  but  super-persons  about 
whom  they  were  prepared  to  believe  all  manner  of 
mythical  grandeurs.  The  more  remarkable  and  more 
superior  people  could  make  out  their  heroes  to  be,  the 
less  humility  they  felt  in  worshipping  them.  And 
since  their  heroes  were  creatures  in  whom  they  recog- 
nized a  glorification  of  their  own  virtues,  the  more 
self-flattering  it  was  to  increase  this  glorification. 
They  were  able  to  worship  themselves  with  abandon 
in  the  splendors  they  attributed  to  their  chosen 
superiors. 

Thus  when  they  started  they  went  the  limit,  heap- 
ing honors  and  honors  upon  a  man  until  he  became  a 
glittering  God-like  person.  The  country  at  the  time 
of  Aubrey's  ascent  was  full  of  such  glittering  God- 


GARGOYLES  89 

like  creatures  whose  names  were  continually  in 
people's  mouths  and  in  their  newspapers.  The 
instinct  of  inferiority  demanding,  as  always,  an  out- 
let in  the  invention  of  gods,  had*  found  a  tireless 
medium  for  this  hocus-pocus  in  the  press.  Great  repu- 
tations were  continually  springing  up — the  news- 
papers like  the  half-cynical,  half-superstitious  priests 
of  the  totem  era  busying  themselves  'with;  creating 
towering  effigies  in  clay  and  smearing  them  with  ver- 
million  paints.  These  gods  whom  people  busily 
erected  and  before  whom  they  busily  prostrated  them- 
selves were,  as  always,  the  awesome  deities  created  in 
their  own  image. 

There  had  been  a  crisis  in  Aubrey's  life  when  he 
was  caught  between  a  desire  to  be  himself  and  the 
desire  to  be  a  great  clay  figure  with  mysterious  totems 
splashed  over  it.  To  be  himself  he  had  only  to 
write  as  he  vaguely  thought  he  wanted  to  write.  And 
to  be  one  of  the  great  figures  he  had  merely  to  write 
what  he  definitely  knew  would  win  him  the  respect  of 
others. 

The  decision,  however,  had  been  taken  out  of  his 
hands.  Aubrey's  talent  had  not  been  of  the  sort  that 
has  for  its  parents  a  hatred  of  society  and  a  derision 
of  its  surfaces.  He  had,  indeed,  fancied  himself  for 
a  short  time  as  desiring  to  adventure  among  the 
doubts  and  iconoclasms  which  distinguished  the  liter- 
ature he  had  encountered  during  his  college  days. 
But  the  fancy  had  proved  no  more  than  an  egoistic 
perversion  of  the  true  impulse  in  him.  This,  it  soon 
developed,  was  a  desire  to  impress  himself  upon  people 
as  their  superior,  not  their  antithesis. 

As  a  result  he  fell  to  writing  books  which  carefully 


90  GARGOYLES 

avoided  the  revolt  which  the  dubious  spectacle  of 
manners  and  morality  had  stirred  in  him.  He  con- 
centrated upon  crystalizing  his  day  dreams.  He 
turned  out  tales  of  deftly  virtuous  Cinderellas  who 
provokingly  withheld  their  kisses  for  three  hundred 
pages;  of  debonnaire  Galahads  with  hearts  of  gold 
who,  utilizing  the  current  platitudes  as  an  armor  and 
a  weapon,  emerged  in  grandiose  triumphs  with  the 
stubborn  virgins  thawing  deliciously  around  their 
necks.  Aubrey's  tales  were  popular  at  once.  They 
were  the  technically  arranged  versions  of  the  rigma- 
role of  secret  make-believes  that  went  on  in  his  own  as 
well  as  other  people's  heads.  People  read  them  and 
quivered  with  delight.  They  were  tales  which  like 
their  own  daydreams  served  as  an  antidote  for  the 
puny,  unimpressive  realities  of  their  lives.  Also  they 
were  moral,  high-minded  tales  and  thus  they  served 
as  a  vindication  of  the  codes,  fears,  taboos  which 
contributed  the  puniness  to  the  realities  of  their  lives. 

Aubrey's  success  increased  rapidly  as  he  abandoned 
altogether  the  pretence  of  plumbing  souls  and  gave 
himself  whole-heartedly  to  the  creative  pleasantries 
of  plumbing  the  soap-bubble  worlds  in  whose  irrides- 
cence  people  found  their  compensations.  At  twenty- 
nine  Aubrey  was  becoming  one  of  the  glittering  God- 
like personages  in  whose  worship  the  public  finds  out- 
let for  its  inferiority  mania  and  simultaneous  conceal- 
ment therefrom. 

He  had  realized  this  in  time  and  without  conscious 
effort  adjusted  himself  toward  the  perfections  de- 
manded of  a  personage  worthy  of  receiving  the  maso- 
chistic and  self-ennobling  salute  of  the  mob.  These 
perfections  were  simply  and  easily  achieved.  One  had 


GARGOYLES  91 

only  to  acquiesce,  to  accept  the  acclaim  of  outsiders 
as  a  part  of  one's  self  and  to  live  one's  inner  life  in  a 
roseate  contemplation  of  this  acclaim.  One  had  only 
to  "remember  one's  public"  as  he  put  it  himself,  and 
not  to  disappoint  them  or  antagonize  them. 

In  his  own  family  he  was  regarded  with  awe.  His 
father  always  felt  bewildered  when  he  spoke  to  him. 
And  even  Mrs.  Gilchrist  revealed  a  slightly  human 
nervousness  in  her  contacts  with  her  son. 

Concerning  Mrs.  Gilchrist  there  was  not  much  to 
be  said,  even  by  such  incipient  iconoclasts  as  Mrs. 
Basine.  She  was  too  defined  an  exterior.  One  was 
conscious  in  her  presence  not  so  much  of  a  woman  as 
of  an  invincible  battle-front  of  ideas.  Nobody  had 
ever  heard  Mrs.  Gilchrist  give  expression  to  anything 
which  could  remotely  be  identified  as  an  idea.  Never- 
theless she  was  a  battle-front. 

She  was  a  woman  with  an  intimidating  coldness  of 
manner.  This  manner  spoke  without  words  of  an  in- 
corruptible intolerance  toward  all  deviations  from 
her  code.  Backsliders,  moral  culprits,  unmannerly 
persons  and,  in  fact,  everyone  not  actively  under  her 
domination  were,  to  Mrs.  Gilchrist,  suspect.  She  man- 
aged to  give  the  impression  that  people  whom  she  did 
not  know  were  creatures  whose  virtues  as  well  as 
social  prestige  were  matters  of  sinister  doubt.  They 
were  outside  the  pale. 

The  secret  of  her  domination  was  a  psychological 
phenomenon  that  eluded  her  antagonists  and  so  left 
them  powerless  to  combat  it.  The  strength  Mrs.  Gil- 
christ felt  within  her  was  the  product  of  a  complete 
repression.  She  had  managed  since  her  youth  to  shut 
herself  successfully  within  the  narrow  limits  of  her 


92  GARGOYLES 

consciousness,  successfully  divorcing  all  her  thoughts, 
desires  and  actions  from  any  dictates  of  an  inner  self. 
She  had  formed  an  ideal,  basing  it  upon  her  social  am- 
bitions and  her  childish  prejudices  of  good  and  bad, 
desirable  and  undesirable.  And  she  had  been  able  to 
perfect  this  ideal.  Her  mind  was  a  tiny  fortress 
against  which  her  own  emotions  and  hence  the  emo- 
tions of  others  battled  in  vain.  It  could  neither  think 
nor  understand  and  this  was  its  strength. 

The  doubts  which  thinking  sometimes  stirred  in  the 
minds  of  her  antagonists,  the  knowledge  of  secret  im- 
pulses and  obscene  imaginings  which  they  were  able 
only  imperfectly  to  keep  from  themselves  and  which 
made  it  possible  for  them  to  appreciate  dimly  the 
sinners  and  iconoclasts  in  the  world — such  knowledge 
never  intruded  upon  Mrs.  Gilchrist. 

Her  indignation  toward  backsliders  and  moral  cul- 
prits was  not  a  projected  censure  of  similar  weakness 
in  herself.  There  were  no  windows  in  the  tiny  fort- 
ress in  which  she  lived.  Protected  from  all  human 
disturbances  of  her  spirit,  she  spent  her  days  closeted 
within  her  little  fortress  in  grim  contemplation  of  her 
rectitude. 

Friendship  was  impossible  to  her.  She  was,  how- 
ever, a  duchy,  a  corporation  in  which  one  could  buy 
stock.  By  subscribing  unquestionably  to  her  rectitude, 
admitting  its  existence  publicly  and  succumbing  to 
its  strength,  one  earned  the  dividends  of  her  social 
approval.  One  became  to  her  a  very  nice  person  in 
whose  submission  she  grudgingly  saw,  as  in  an  im- 
perfect mirror,  the  image  of  her  own  virtues. 

Curiously  enough,  Mrs.  Gilchrist  was  renowned 
for  her  activity  as  a  philanthropist  and  charity  work- 


GARGOYLES  93 

er.  Her  social  prestige,  aside  from  her  strength  of 
character,  was  based  upon  this.  She  was  a  perennial 
patroness,  a  member  of  hospital  boards,  a  chairman 
of  bazaars,  special  matinees,  charity  balls  and  money- 
raising  campaigns.  All  these  activities  were  in  the 
interest  of  the  poor.  The  money  raised  by  them  went 
toward  bringing  comfort  to  creatures  whose  moral 
obliquity  and  human  weaknesses  Mrs.  Gilchrist  au- 
thentically despised.  Yet  she  was  indefatigable  in  her 
work,  darting  in  her  unvarying  black  dress  from  meet- 
ing to  meeting,  bristling  with  magnificent  plans  for 
further  philanthropies. 

Her  husband  occasionally  wondered.  He  was  un- 
able to  reconcile  the  coldness  he  knew  in  his  wife  with 
the  character  of  her  labors.  At  times  he  dimly  felt 
that  it  was  her  way  of  saying  something — perhaps  a 
way  of  showing  a  hidden  warmth  toward  people. 

But  in  Mrs.  Gilchrist's  thought  there  was  no  such 
explanation. 

To  have  admitted  to  herself  a  concern  for  the  crea- 
tures in  whose  behalf  she  devoted  her  energies  would 
have  been  to  open  a  door  in  the  tiny  fortress,  or  at 
least  to  create  a  loophole  out  of  which  she  might  look 
with  sympathy  upon  the  confusions  and  torments  of 
her  fellows. 

Her  inner  humanism,  divorced  from  the  narrow 
limits  of  her  consciousness,  was  finding  its  outlet,  as 
her  husband  suspected,  in  her  work.  But  during  this 
work  never  for  a  moment  did  Mrs.  Gilchrist  think  of 
the  creatures  she  was  benefiting.  She  had  rationalized 
her  activities  and  made  them  a  part  of  the  emotionless 
content  of  her  mind. 

All   relation  between  the  things   she  did  and  the 


94  GARGOYLES 

people  she  did  them  for  was  divorced  in  her  thought. 
In  bazaars  she  superintended,  in  balls,  fetes,  cam- 
paigns, auctions  she  energized  with  her  presence,  she 
saw  only  bazaars,  balls,  fetes,  campaigns  and  auctions. 
She  worked  for  their  success  with  an  invulnerable  pre- 
occupation in  the  details  which  went  to  make  them 
socially  proper  and  financially  triumphant. 

The  altruism  of  her  work  inspired  no  altruism  in 
her.  She  did  not  allow  herself  to  sympathise  with  the 
weakness  and  poverties  she  was  aiding  or  even  to 
contemplate  them  for  an  instant.  Yet  her  work  ac- 
complished, the  charity  a  success,  she  experienced  the 
stern  elation  of  uhaving  done  good."  This  elation 
was  inspired  in  no  way  by  the  thought  of  the  solace 
she  had  brought  to  others.  It  was  entirely  egoistic — 
a  moment  in  which  her  rectitude  congratulated  itself 
upon — its  rectitude. 


Fanny  Basine  smiled  timidly  at  Aubrey.  He  was 
paying  little  attention  to  her.  He  was  listening  to 
Judge  Smith  airing  his  views  on  the  annexation  of  the 
Philippines. 

The  judge  was  forcibly  declaring  that  the  thing 
was  essential  and  that  no  gentleman  with  his  coun- 
try's future  at  heart  could  possibly  believe  otherwise. 
Aubrey,  to  the  judge's  secret  discomfiture,  somehow 
managed  to  convey  an  assent  to  these  views,  but  an 
assent  based  upon  superior  motives.  What  these 
motives  were  Judge  Smith  was  unable  to  fathom.  Au- 
brey, when  it  came  his  turn  to  expound,  further  irri- 
tated the  judge  by  revealing  them.  He,  Aubrey,  was 
for  the  annexation  of  the  Philippines  but  only  because 


GARGOYLES  9i 

he  was  convinced  such  an  annexation  would  be  of  su- 
preme benefit  to  the  natives  of  the  islands. 

Mrs.  Gilchrist  nodded  sternly  in  agreement  with 
her  son.  The  rest  of  the  company  listening  with  vacu- 
ous attentiveness  waited  for  the  debaters  to  continue 
talking  for  them.  Basine  who  had  been  silent  came 
to  the  judge's  rescue.  He  explained  that  the  judge 
and  Aubrey  meant  practically  the  same  thing  but  that 
they  had  chosen  different  ways  to  express  themselves. 

"Judge  Smith/*  Basine  smiled,  "sees  in  the  annex- 
ation something  which  will  benefit  his  country.  He 
knows  as  well  as  any  of  us  that  it  will  not  benefit  it 
financially.  It  will  be  a  source  of  expenditure  and 
strife.  Then  how  will  it  benefit  us?  Because  it  will 
give  us  an  opportunity  to  aid  a  pack  of  uncivilized 
and  benighted  heathen  and  despite  them  to  bring  peace 
and  prosperity  to  their  own  country — not  ours.  Which 
is  exactly  what  you  mean,  Aubrey." 

The  judge  beamed  approval  and  Aubrey  contented 
himself  with  a  stare  of  dignity.  He  did  not  relish 
psychological  interpretations  of  his  words.  As  an 
author,  he  felt  annoyed.  But  Basine  continued  to  talk 
undeterred  by  his  stare.  He  disliked  Aubrey.  Not  so 
much  as  Doris.  And  in  a  somewhat  different  way. 
Further,  the  presence  of  Henrietta  was  a  curious  in- 
spiration. The  girl's  wide-eyed  tenderness  had  irri- 
tated and  frightened  him  after  the  incident  in  the 
kitchen  when  they  had  gone  searching  for  the  thing- 
umabob. Now  he  had  no  interest  in  the  Philippine  con- 
troversy. But  he  had  entered  the  discussion  in  order 
to  rid  himself  of  the  uncomfortable  memory  the  epi- 
sode with  Henrietta  had  left  him.  As  he  talked  the 
memory  played  hide  and  seek  in  his  words  .  .  . 


96  GARGOYLES 

"She  thinks  I'm  going  to  marry  her  .  .  .  but  she's 
engaged  to  him  .  .  .  she's  crazy  .  .  .  what  the  Hell 
did  I  do  it  for?  .  .  .  Damn  it  ...  damn  it  .  .  ." 

Instinctively  he  took  the  judge's  part,  as  if  he  must 
establish  himself  firmly  in  the  father's  good  graces  in 
order  to  make  premature  amends  for  the  jilting  of  his 
daughter.  The  position  he  had  taken  pleased  him 
because  it  also  involved  an  opposition  to  Aubrey. 

Fanny  continued  to  smile  at  the  novelist.  Keegan 
bored  her.  They  had  been  walking  together  and  she 
had  lost  interest  in  the  sensual  game  she  had  been 
playing  with  him.  Alone,  she  might  have  tried  to  re- 
peat the  experience  of  the  morning  with  Keegan. 
But  her  physical  curiosity  partially  gratified  for  the 
moment  by  the  surreptitious  excitement  she  had 
derived  from  him,  her  interest  transferred  itself  to 
Aubrey. 

The  man  amused  and  impressed  her.  Her  thought 
separated  him  into  two  people.  She  resented  his  per- 
sistent dignity.  Her  perceptions,  sharpened  by  the 
practical  sensuality  of  her  nature,  saw  through  the 
little  ruses  by  which  Aubrey  converted  his  slight  de- 
formities into  a  dignified  whole.  As  she  listened  to 
him  she  said  to  herself,  "  ...  he  thinks  it's  smart 
to  wear  a  ribbon  on  his  glasses  ...  he  sticks/  his 
chest  out  .  .  .  he's  got  skinny  arms  ...  he  looks 
funny  .  .  ." 

After  a  half  hour  she  lost  her  resentment  and  the 
thing  that  had  inspired  it  came  to  amuse  her.  She 
could  see  through  his  funny  manner  so  it  didn't  anger 
her.  But  although  now  she  smiled  with  amusement 
at  the  man's  impressiveness,  a  feeling  of  awe  pene- 


GARGOYLES  97 

trated  her.  Aubrey  was  a  great  man.  People  spoke 
his  name  everywhere.  He  was  known. 

A  delicious  tremble  passed  through  her.  She  was 
careful  not  to  translate  it  into  words.  Had  she  in- 
spected the  tremble  and  its  causes,  it  would  have  out- 
raged her.  She  was  content  always  to  accept  her  emo- 
tions blindly  for  fear  of  having  to  forego  them  if  she 
knew  their  causes.  She  kept  herself  intact  in  her  own 
mind  as  a  good  girl  not  by  belligerently  repressing  her 
impulses  but  by  enjoying  them  secretly  outside  her 
mind. 

She  had  thought  of  Aubrey  as  a  great  man  and 
with  it  had  come  the  inner  impulse  to  be  embraced 
passionately  by  him.  Not  because  he  was  Aubrey,  but 
because  he  was  the  famous  Aubrey  Gilchrist,  whose 
name  was  known.  To  be  embraced  by  a  famous  man 
would  be  like  being  embraced  somehow  .by  all  the 
people  who  knew  his  name.  She  would  be  able  to 
think  while  satisfying  her  desire,  "Everybody  knows 
him.  They  know  all  about  him.  It's  almost  as  if 
they  knew  he  was  doing  this  ...  I  was  doing  this." 

Then,  too,  there  would  be  a  feeling  of  intense 
secrecy  about  it,  a  sort  of  blasphemous  secrecy.  When 
an  ordinary  man  kissed  her,  that  was  of  course,  a 
secret.  But  if  a  famous  man  should  kiss  her,  a  man 
like  Aubrey,  that  would  be  a  super-secret.  A  violation 
of  something  remarkable.  It  would  be  a  thing  con- 
cealed not  merely  from  her  family  and  from  the  vague 
circle  of  friends  who  might  be  interested,  but  from 
millions  of  people  who  knew  Aubrey  and  who  would 
be  tremendously  interested  in  everything  he  did.  She 
would  be  giving  herself  to  a  public  figure  and  yet  the 
thing  she  was  doing  would  be  marvelously  concealed 


98  GARGOYLES 

from  the  public.  And  so  she  would  be  able  to  enjoy  the 
thrill  of  demonstromania — of  being  taken  by  some- 
one who  was  not  an  individual  like  Keegan  but  a  man 
who  was  part  of  other  people's  minds — and  at  the 
same  time  she  would  be  able  to  enjoy  the  thrill  of 
defiant  intimacy;  the  knowledge  that  the  people  in 
whose  minds  the  name  Aubrey  Gilchrist  was  alive 
would  be  ignorant  of  what  she  was  doing  to  the  man 
they  admired.  All  this  would  be  a  sharpening  of 
pleasure  by  the  consciousness  of  wholesale  deceit, 
wholesale  intimacy. 

These  intuitions  whose  articulation  would  have  been 
entirely  unintelligable  to  Fanny  sent  the  delicious 
tremble  through  her  body.  Immediately  the  two 
separate  Aubreys  of  her  mind  focussed  into  one  and 
she  lost  both  her  amusement  and  her  awe  of  him. 
She  sat  regarding  him  with  a  timid  smile  designed 
to  arouse  his  curiosity.  As  yet  he  had  ignored  her,  his 
eyes  seeking  out  Henrietta  when  the  annexation  debate 
waned. 

Basine  had  diverted  the  talk  into  literary  channels 
by  inquiring,  apropos  of  nothing,  whether  anyone  had 
read  a  book  by  a  man  named  Meredith.  He  had 
found  it  in  Doris'  room  one  evening  and  glanced 
through  it.  Seeking  now  for  further  material  with 
which  to  discomfit  Aubrey  he  had  remembered  the 
volume.  He  took  it  for  granted  that  since  his  sister 
Doris  had  been  reading  it,  the  book  was  a  very  worth- 
while book — the  kind  he  cared  nothing  about  reading 
himself.  This  did  not  interfere  with  his  utilizing  an 
exposition  of  its  merits  as  a  weapon  against  Aubrey. 

"I  was  quite  surprised,"  he  explained.  Doris 
listened  with  a  frown.  She  was  certain  her  brother  had 


GARGOYLES  99 

not  read  the  book  and  the  knowledge  he  was  lying 
aggravated  her.  She  knew  he  lied  continually  but  was 
indifferent.  But  to  have  him  lie  about  something  she 
admired,  even  in  its  defense,  made  her  uncomfortable 
as  if  he  were  trying  to  establish  false  claims  upon  her 
regard. 

uThe  book  is  altogether  unlike  most  books,"  he 
went  on,  generalizing  carefully.  His  mind,  totally 
ignorant  of  the  subject  he  was  discussing,  was  shrewdly 
inventing  a  book  diametrically  opposite  in  style 
and  content  to  the  books  Aubrey  wrote.  By  praising 
such  a  book  he  would  manage  without  reference  to  his 
antagonist  to  disparage  his  entire  literary  output. 

He  was  not  clear  in  his  mind  why  Aubrey  had  be- 
come an  antagonist.  The  memory  reiterating  itself 
behind  his  words  "  .  .  .  she  think's  Fm  going 
to  marry  her  .  .  .  damn  it  .  .  ."  was  mysteriously 
finding  outlet  in  an  indignation  neither  against  himself 
nor  Henrietta,  but  against  the  unsuspecting  Aubrey. 

Fanny  listened  to  the  new  conversation,  but  Mere- 
dith was  soon  dropped  .  .  .  The  sight  of  Mrs. 
Gilchrist  grimly  poised  opposite  her  mother,  became 
a  part  of  the  lure  Aubrey  exercised  over  her.  He 
was  the  son  of  this  hard-faced,  domineering  woman. 
To  do  something  with  him  that  was  intimate  would 
be  a  deliciously  concealed  violation  of  the  mother's 
propriety.  Fanny  had  alwaysj  been  intimidated  by 
Mrs.  Gilchrist's  propriety.  Embracing  her  son  would 
be  a  sort  of  revenge. 

Without  wasting  time  looking  for  reasons,  Fanny 
felt  Aubrey  as  an  attraction.  Her  attitude  toward 
him  grew  more  intimate.  She  did  not  try  to  enter  the 
talk  but  adjusted  herself  in  the  chair,  placing  her  body 


100  GARGOYLES 

so  that  the  curve  of  her  hip  and  leg  were  effectively 
visible  to  Aubrey. 

And  while  the  others  talked  she  assured  herself  of 
the  plausibility  of  her  amibtions.  Aubrey  was  a  great 
man  and  very  famous  and  distinguished.  But  he  was 
after  all  entirely  human.  He  had  written  books  and 
Fanny  fell  to  thinking  about  them,  about  the  descrip- 
tions of  love-making  which  crowded  the  pages  of  his 
books.  Aubrey  was  famous  and  therefore  aloof.  But 
the  things  that  had  made  him  famous — the  love  pas- 
sages in  his  books,  were  not  intimidating.  She  remem- 
bered them  with  gratitude.  They  were  love  descrip- 
tions and  Aubrey  had  written  them. 

Love  passages  were  in  fact  all  that  Fanny  usually 
remembered  of  her  reading.  Plots  and  characters 
escaped  her.  After  she  had  closed  a  book  there  re- 
mained in  her  mind  merely  the  scenes  in  which  men 
had  placed  their  arms  around  women  and  whispered 
after  a  succession  of  exciting  adjectives,  "I  love  you." 

This  was  due  to  the  manner  in  which  Fanny  read. 
As  a  girl  she  had  ploughed  laboriously  through  a  set 
of  Shakespeare  in  quest  of  obscene  passages.  Her 
girl's  eyes  would  skip  with  irritation  the  speeches  that 
seemed  to  her  extraneous  until,  caught  by  some  "nasty" 
word,  she  would  become  eagerly  interested  and  care- 
fully digest  the  sentences  preceding  and  following  it. 
At  fourteen  she  had  discovered  that  the  dictionary, 
stuck  away  in  a  dusty  corner  of  the  book  case,  was 
filled  with  many  such  words.  Whenever  occasion 
permitted  she  opened  the  big  volume  and  poured  in- 
tently over  its  contents,  digesting  with  excitement  the 
definitions  of  what  she  called  to  herself,  the  nasty 
words. 


GARGOYLES  101 

The  result  of  this  curious  reading  technique  had 
gradually  shown  itself  as  she  matured.  Literature 
became  to  her  a  secretly  immoral  and  indecent  thing. 
She  would  blush  when  people  mentioned  Shakespeare 
or  any  of  the  books  in  which  she  had  eagerly  browsed. 
Observing  that  her  blushes  gave  people  an  impres- 
sion of  her  sensitive  chastity,  she  developed  a  habit 
of  seeming  offended  at  the  mention  of  any  volume  she 
suspected  of  containing  such  words  and  passages  as 
she  was  continually  searching  for  in  secret. 

She  would  say,  "Oh,  I  don't  like  that  kind  of  a 
book.  I  don't  think  people  should  write  like  that — 
about  such  things.  There  are  so  many  nice  things  to 
write  about  I  don't  see  why  people  must  write  about 
the  others." 

Delivering  herself  of  these  sentiments  on  all  oc- 
casions, she  continued  her  furtive  hunt  for  books 
about  "such  things."  One  red-letter  evening  she 
stumbled  upon  a  pamphlet  in  her  brother's  room  de- 
scribing the  horrors  of  venereal  diseases  and  outlining 
with  verbal  and  pictorial  illustrations  the  ravages 
wrought  by  the  disease  germs.  She  had  devoured  the 
information  greedily,  her  sensuality  editing  the  well- 
intentioned  brochure  into  a  mass  of  erotic  revelations. 

Aubrey's  books,  although  a  bit  too  innocuous  to 
exhilarate  her  as  the  pamphlet  had  done  or  even  the 
dictionary,  properly  read,  was  able  to  do,  contained 
innumerable  passages  she  remembered.  She  treated 
his  writing  as  she  did  all  writing,  skimming  hastily 
over!  irrelevant  matters  such  as  dialogues  between 
men,  discussions  of  abstract  problems,  mother  and 
child  scenes  and  coming  to  a  pause  only  at  the  por- 
tions which  began  with  some  such  sentence  as  "He 


102  GARGOYLES 

looked  at  her  with  burning  eyes,"  or,  "She  felt  ner- 
vous because  at  last  she  was  alone  with  him,"  or, 
"He  tried  to  draw  her  to  him  but  she  resisted,  her 
virtue  outraged  by  the  light  in  his  eyes." 

She  recalled  these  passages  now  as  the  literary 
discussion  grew  warmer.  The  knowledge  that  Aub- 
rey had  written  them  served  to  humanize  him  and 
remove  his  aloofness  in  her  eyes.  He  was  a  famous 
man.  On  the  other  hand  he  was  famous  because  he 
wrote  such  things  as,  "She  yielded  with  a  happy  sigh 
to  the  manly  embrace." 

Aubrey  felt  irritated  with  Basine.  He  stood  up  and 
seemingly  without  intention  walked  to  a  vacant  chair 
next  to  Fanny.  The  conversation  had  been  taken  up 
by  Mrs.  Gilchrist  who  was  explaining  the  real  pur- 
pose of  her  visit. 

"We  are  giving  a  fete  on  Mrs.  Channing's  lawn," 
she  was  saying,  "and  I  would  very  much  like  you  to 
be  one  of  the  members  of  the  committee  on  printing." 

Mrs.  Basine  felt  an  elation  at  the  words.  She  had 
read  about  the  Channing  lawn  fete.  An  affair  of 
social  magnificence  designed  to  raise  funds  for  the  As- 
sociated Charities.  Great  social  names  were  involved. 
Mrs.  Basine's  heart  trembled  gratefully. 

"Oh,  thank  you,"  she  said,  her  voice  taking  on  a 
formal,  artificial  tone.  Mrs.  Gilchrist  nodded.  The 
tone  pleased  her.  She  could  count  on  the  Basine 
woman  among  the  select  who  showed  their  gratitude 
openly  at  the  largesse  of  her  favor.  She  would,  in 
fact,  deign  to  stay  for  supper  as  a  reward. 

Mrs.  Basine,  urging  her  to  remain  for  the  light 
Sunday  evening  meal,  felt  indignant  with  herself.  She 
would  have  preferred  to  refuse  the  committee  on 


GARGOYLES  103 

printing.    Even  as  she  accepted  and  experienced  the 
elation  her  thought  bristled  with  revolt. 

"The  old  fool  ...  the  !old  fool,"  repeated  it- 
self with  annoying  clarity  in  her  mind.  She  detested 
Mrs.  Gilchrist.  Since  her  husband's  death  Mrs.  Bas- 
ine  had  outgrown  the  snobbery  which  had  inspired 
her  during  her  life  to  pour  over  the  society  columns. 
But  a  habit  had  been  established,  the  habit  of  a  desire 
to  become  a  member  of  the  closely  knit  organization 
known  as  Society.  And  now  she  was  apparently 
powerless  to  overcome  this  desire  which  no  longer 
animated  her  but  yet  intruded  out  of  the  past.  She 
looked  down  upon  herself  for  the  elation  over  becom- 
ing a  member  of  a  printing  committee  for  a  social 
charity  fete. 

"I  hate  it  ...  I  just  hate  it,"  she  would  murmur 
for  days  at  a  time.  But  the  elation  would  persist, 
a  thing  beyond  the  control  of  her  improved  out- 
look upon  life.  She  was  aware  also  of  the  simple  pro- 
cess by  which  she  transferred  her  self-indictment  into 
a  detestation  of  Mrs.  Gilchrist.  Mrs.  Gilchrist  was 
the  one  who  appealed  to  what  Mrs.  Basine  had  grown 
to  regard  as  her  "smaller  nature."  And  her  anger 
toward  the  imperturbable  dowager  was  the  anger  of 
a  virtuous  woman  toward  one  whose  temptations  she 
was  unable  to  resist. 

"You've  been  rather  silent."  Aubrey  smiled  patron- 
izingly at  Fanny.  She  nodded. 

"Oh,  I've  been  so  interested  in  what  you've  been 
saying,"  she  answered.  She  noticed  with  a  feeling  of 
sisterly  gratitude  that  Basine  had  occupied  himself 
with  Henrietta.  Aubrey  caught  the  direction  of  her 


104  GARGOYLES 

glance  and  frowned.  He  had  developed  a  definite  dis- 
like of  Basine  during  the  afternoon. 

Keegan,  listening  uncomfortably  to  the  judge  who 
was  ignoring  him  in  his  talk  but  whose  audience  Kee- 
gan felt  it  a  social  necessity  to  remain,  tried  vainly  to 
capture  Fanny's  eyes.  She  had  apparently  forgotten 
his  existence.  But  now  as  Aubrey  seated  himself  at 
her  side,  she  smiled  intimately  in  the  direction  of  the 
confused  Keegan. 

"Oh,  Hugh,"  she  said  loud  enough  for  him  to  hear. 

The  sound  of  his  name  from  the  girl  gave  Keegan 
an  inexplicable  sensation.  He  felt  himself  break  into 
happy  smiles  and  the  anxiety  that  had  been  growing 
in  his  heart  seemed  abruptly  to  have  vanished  under 
her  voice.  He  came  to  her  side  and  stood  looking 
timidly  at  her.  The  conviction  came  over  Fanny  that 
Keegan  was  in  love.  She  felt  pleased  and  her  heart 
warmed  toward  him.  But  her  interests  remained  ex- 
clusively preoccupied  with  the  novelist. 

"I  was  just  going  out  to  the  kitchen  and  wondered 
if  you  wanted  to  help  cut  sandwiches,"  she  smiled  at 
Keegan. 

"Sure,"  he  answered. 

"I'm  an  excellent  cook  myself,"  Aubrey  unbent 
gravely. 

Fanny  stood  up  and  started  toward  the  hall.  The 
two  men  hesitated  and  then  followed  her.  Basine, 
frowning  slightly  toward  the  door,  listened  to  her 
voice  chattering  to  cover  the  embarrassed  silence  of 
the  two  men  she  had  bagged. 

"Don't  you  want  to  go  out  there  and  help,"  he 
turned  to  Henrietta. 

She  shook  her  head. 


GARGOYLES  105 

Keegan  felt  himself  being  slowly  transported.  His 
penitence  had  faded  into  less  satisfactory  emotions 
toward  the  middle  of  the  day.  A  gloom  had  come 
over  him  and  his  heart  had  felt  weighted.  He  had  at 
first  identified  this  state  of  mind  as  a  ghastly  premo- 
nition of  disease  as  a  result  of  last  night's  debauch 
and  thought  that  the  depression  he  felt  was  his 
nervous  system  or  something  warning  him  of  this  fact. 

The  depression  lifted.  He  sat  around  the  Basine 
home  listening  to  the  chatter  of  the  arriving  guests 
and  feeling  out  of  place.  He  felt  that  he  was  wishing 
lor  something  but  couldn't  make  out  what  it  was.  His 
heart  hurt,  his  head  felt  heavy.  There  were  aches  in 
him  and  a  feeling  of  listlessness.  More,  he  couldn't 
sit  still.  The  room  seemed  a  suffocating  place.  He 
was  unhappy. 

Several  hours  later  it  dawned  on  him  with  a  shock 
that  he  was  in  love  with  Fanny.  The  sudden  expla- 
nation frightened  him.  He  attempted  to  deny  it  to 
himself.  The  struggle  endured  a  half  hour.  He  sur- 
rendered. 

When  he  looked  at  Fanny  again  she  had  undergone 
a  complete  change.  There  was  a  startling  intimacy 
in  her  features.  Her  contours  were  stamped  with  an 
appeal  he  had  never  observed  before  in  a  woman. 
The  rest  of  the  company  sat  behind  a  thin  film  of 
politeness  and  formality.  But  Fanny  sat  with  him 
outside  this  film.  The  others  in  the  room  were  blurred 
as  if  half  hidden.  Fanny  was  distinct.  A  light 
seemed  to  beat  upon  her.  He  looked  in  amazement. 

A  few  hours  ago  he  had  noticed  nothing.  Now 
he  noticed  everything  .  .  .  her  dress,  her  hands, 
her  hair,  her  eyes,  her  ankles.  He  was  frightened  be- 


106  GARGOYLES 

cause  it  seemed  as  if  someone  had  invaded  the  secret 
world  in  which  he  alone  lived.  He  remembered  fright- 
enedly  that  he  had  lain  with  his  head  in  her  lap,  that 
he  had  embraced  her.  There  had  been  something  curi- 
ous about  the  embrace  but  he  was  unable  to  indentify  it. 

"She  felt  sorry  for  me,  that's  all,"  he  thought  and 
at  once  all  hope  ebbed  out  of  him.  Yet  he  continued 
to  look  at  her  and  watch  her  grow  more  familiar,  so 
familiar  that  her  image  seemed  to  have  come  into  his 
heart  where  he  could  feel  it  choking  him. 

A  few  minutes  after  entering  the  kitchen  he  grew 
hopeful.  He  found  himself  in  the  position  of  an  in- 
timate— at  least  by  comparison.  She  was  paying  no 
attention  to  Aubrey.  She  laughed  at  his,  Keegan's, 
clumsiness,  chided  him  good-naturedly.  She  held  his 
hand  and,  his  heart  beating  wildly,  directed  him  in 
slicing  the  bread.  When  he  was  drawing  the  water 
from  the  sink  faucet  she  leaned  over  resting  her  chin 
on  his  shoulder  and  effected  a  humorous  concern.  He 
felt  her  body  press  warmly  against  him  and  almost 
dropped  the  cut-glass  'pitcher  he  was  holding.  He 
was  being  transported. 

Out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  he  watched  the  novel- 
ist. A  sorry  fellow  with  gawky  feet  and  a  clumsy- 
looking  face.  Keegan  vaguely  pitied  him  as  he  stood 
around  doing  his  best  to  horn  in  on  the  intimacy  be- 
tween Fanny  and  himself.  He  knew  how  the  novelist 
felt.  It  seemed  to  Keegan  even  that  it  was  he,  Keegan, 
feeling  that  way,  and  that  the  carefully  concealed  em- 
barassment,  the  futile  chagrin  and  lameness  were  his 
own  emotions  and  not  Aubrey  Gilchrist's.  In  an  effort 
to  put  the  defeated  rival  at  his  ease,  so  Keegan  re- 
garded him,  he  tried  magnanimously  to  include  him 


GARGOYLES  107 

in    the    little    byplay    between    himself    and    Fanny. 

"Here,  you  try  your  hand  at  this/'  he  offered, 
handing  Aubrey  the  knife.  Fanny  pouted. 

"Hm!  Just  as  I  was  teaching  you  the  art  of  bread 
cutting  you  run  away  from  school,"  she  complained. 
Keegan  resumed  his  operations  on  the  bread,  a  satis- 
fied warmth  in  his  heart.  For  her  hand  had  returned 
to  its  position  and  she  was  again  going  through  the 
idiotic  pretense  of  teaching  him  how  to  move  a  knife. 
He  was  being  transported.  His  vacuous  face  had  tak- 
en on  a  vivacity.  He  was  fearful  of  presuming,  of  do- 
ing something  wrong,  and  he  made  no  effort  to  caress 
her.  No  effort  was  necessary  for,  somehow,  despite 
his  carefully  edited  behavior,  their  fingers  were  always 
touching,  their  bodies  coming  together. 

Still  he  was  afraid  to  think  that  Fanny  had  fallen 
in  love  with  him.  He  was  even  afraid  that  Aubrey 
would  go  away  and  leave  them  alone  in  the  kitchen. 
If  they  were  alone  he  would  have  to  try  to  kiss  her 
or  something  and  she  would  laugh  and  then  say  in- 
dignantly, uYou  idiot,  I  was  just  playing.  I  see  now 
that  you  think  all  women  are  like  those  you  told  me 
about." 

He  would  rather  that  Aubrey  remained  and  that 
everything  continued  as  it  was.  The  sandwiches  were 
piling  up  on  the  large  platters. 

"Here,"  Fanny  cried,  holding  one  of  them  up  for 
him  to  bite. 

He  looked  apologetically  at  Aubrey  as  if  asking  to 
be  forgiven  for  this  proof  of  her  superior  regard  and 
with  a  blush  ate  from  her  fingers.  Fanny  suddenly  let 
go  the  sandwich  and  as  it  dropped  to  the  floor,  patted 
him  tenderly  on  his  cheek  and  laughed. 


108  GARGOYLES 

"Um  .  .  .  big  man  hungry,"  she  whispered. 

He  turned  to  place  the  fallen  pieces  of  bread  in  the 
sink.  His  hand  brushed  hers  and  he  felt  her  fingers 
close  firmly  around  his  palm  with  a  squeeze.  He  half 
shut  his  eyes  at  the  shock  that  filled  his  heart.  Fanny's 
eyes,  however,  ignored  him.  I  She  was  engaged  in 
watching  Aubrey  for  whose  benefit  the  entire  scene 
was  being  staged.  Her  instinct  had  supplied  her  with 
a  mode  of  attack.  She  would  arouse  desire  in  the 
novelist  by  showing  herself  desired — although  by 
another  man.  A  desired  woman  was  an  irritant.  It 
aroused  illogical  jealousy. 

The  icebox  was  in  the  back  hallway. 

"The  cream  and  things  are  in  here,"  Fanny  ex- 
claimed. 

Keegan  followed  her  out  of  the  kitchen  into  the 
rear  vestibule.  She  had  squeezed  his  hand  before 
starting  and  thrown  him  a  glance  as  she  passed 
through  the  doorway.  He  felt  embarrassed  for 
Aubrey  and  was  on  the  point  of  inviting  him  to  share 
the  intimacy  of  the  small  vestibule.  But  Fanny  in- 
terrupted him. 

"Oh  Hugh,"  she  called  softly,  "will  you  chop  some 
ice,  please,  for  the  water." 

She  handed  him  the  ice  pick  and  laughed  nervous- 
ly. The  door  was  half  open  and  Keegan  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  novelist  pretending  a  vast  interest  in 
the  arrangement  of  the  sandwiches  on  the  plates. 

"What's  the  matter,  Hugh?  You  seem  so  ... 
so  funny,"  Fanny  whispered  close  to  him. 

His  heart  contracted.  He  was  afraid.  If  he  dared 
he  would  put  his  arms  around  her.  But  after  all  the 
things  he  had  confessed  to  her  in  their  walk  .  .  . 


GARGOYLES  109 

A  longing  to  weep  almost  brought  tears  out  of  his 
eyes.  He  stood  with  his  mouth  open  and  stared  as 
in  a  dream  at  a  blurred  vision. 

"Fanny,"  he  muttered,  "I'm  sorry  .  .  ." 

"About  last  night,"  she  whispered.    He  nodded. 

"But  Hughie,  you  said  you  wouldn't  ever  again  .  .  ." 

He  felt  despair. 

"If  I  only  hadn't  .   .   .  I  would  ..."   He  stopped. 

"Would  what,  Hughie?"  Fear  halted  him  definite- 
ly. He  could  go  no  further.  A  misery  clouded  his 
thought.  He  felt  her  hand  touching  his  arm. 

"You  mustn't  feel  sorry,  Hugh.  Please  promise 
me  you  won't  feel  sorry  ..." 

The  sweetness  of  her  voice  overpowered  him  and 
his  eyes  grew  wet.  He  tried  to  talk  but  was  ashamed 
of  the  quiver  he  felt  in  his  throat.  Fanny  pressed 
lightly  against  him.  He  stood  with  his  head  reeling 
and  his  heart  dancing  crazily  as  her  arms  circled  his 
neck.  Her  face  was  raised  to  his. 

"Just  one  .  .  .  Hughie.  Please  .  .  .  don't  forget. 
Please  hurry  ..." 

He  heard  her  words  but  they  conveyed  no  mean- 
ing. He  loved  her  ...  he  loved  her.  He  had 
never  been  happy  like  this.  He  couldn't  tell  her 
now  .  .  .  the  icebox,  something,  was  in  the  way. 
But  sometime  he  would  tell  her.  His  arms  and  body 
felt  alive. 

"Oh,"  he  thought,  "Fanny,  Fanny  ..." 

Then  he  heard  himself  repeating  the  thought  aloud. 
He  was  saying  in  a  voice  he  hardly  recognized,  "Oh, 
Fanny,  Fanny." 

He  kissed  her  lips. 

For  a  moment  Fanny  returned  his  kiss  passionate- 


110  GARGOYLES 

Iy.  Her  arms  clutched  him  tightly.  She  felt  a  curious 
lift  in  her  heart,  a  thing  she  had  .never  experienced 
before.  It  made  her  almost  close  her  eyes.  But  she 
kept  them  open,  watching  furtively  over  Keegan's 
shoulder  the  figure  of  Aubrey.  Aubrey  had  remained 
bent  over  the  plates  of  sandwiches.  Despite  the  lift 
in  her  heart  this  annoyed  her.  She  wanted  Aubrey's 
attention. 

"Oh,"  she  sighed  aloud.  Aubrey  heard.  He 
straightened  and  for  a  moment  stared  at  the  tableau 
of  the  lovers.  Fanny  watching  him  behind  Keegan's 
kiss  saw  his  face  grow  red.  Then  she  lowered  her  eyes 
and  abandoned  herself  to  the  sensation  of  Keegan's 
arms.  But  the  sensations  faded.  An  interest  seemed 
to  have  gone  out  of  the  situation.  She  pushed  Keegan 
gently  away  and  looked  into  the  kitchen.  Aubrey  was 
gone. 

"Oh,"  she  whispered.  Keegan  looked  at  her  diz- 
zily, "He  saw  ..." 

"Who?" 

"Aubrey  Gilchrist  saw  you."    Her  face  flushed. 

"Did  he?"  Keegan  leaned  against  the  icebox.  He 
felt  weak. 

"I'm  sure  he  did,"  Fanny  insisted,  an  elated  note 
in  her  voice,  "I'm  just  positive." 

"He  couldn't  have  seen  much  if  he  did,  from  where 
he  was  standing,"  Keegan  murmured. 

"I  don't  care  anyway,"  Fanny  smiled.  Keegan  felt 
a  thrill  at  the  words.  She  loved  him  and  didn't  care 
who  knew! 

"Neither  do  I,"  he  agreed.  He  felt  glad  they  had 
been  seen.  It  made  him  blush  inside  but  he  was  glad. 

"Oh,  what  do  we  care?"    Fanny  cried,  "if  the  old 


GARGOYLES  111 

stick-in-the-mud  did  see."  Keegan  reached  his  hands 
to  her  but  she  eluded  him  and  darted  into  the  kitchen. 

"Hurry,  chop  the  ice,"  she  called.  She  was  con- 
fused. For  a  moment  she  had  been  surprised  by  an 
emotion — a  curious,  unsensual  desire  for  the  awk- 
ward Keegan.  She  had  felt  her  heart  yield  to  his  em- 
brace as  she  usually  felt  her  body  do.  But  the  whole 
thing  had  been  for  Aubrey's  benefit.  It  had  started 
with  an  intention  of  making  Aubrey  jealous  by  flirting 
with  Keegan.  And  when  Aubrey  had  refused  to  show 
any  signs  of  jealousy  she  had  carried  the  flirtation 
further  until  it  had  seemed  logical  to  kiss  and  embrace 
Keegan  as  a  part  of  her  original  ambition  to  stir 
Aubrey.  But  she  had  been  stirred  herself  by  the  man's 
kiss.  Yet  now  that  Aubrey  was  gone  she  had  lost  all 
interest  in  Hugh.  She  wanted  to  hurry  back  where 
the  novelist  was. 

She  glanced  apprehensively  toward  the  door.  Doris 
was  standing  looking  at  her. 

"What's  the  matter,  Doric?'1 

"Mr.  Ramsey  has  come.  Mother  said  to  set  an- 
other place." 

"Good  heavens!    What  a  houseful." 

Doris  nodded.  Keegan  was  standing  in  the  center 
of  the  room  smiling  inanely  at  the  sink. 

"I'll  help  you,"  said  Doris. 

8 

Mrs.  Basine  was  embarassed  by  the  arrival  of  her 
friend  Tom  Ramsey.  He  had  been  a  friend  of  her 
husband  and  a  rumor  had  become  current  that  he  was 
now  courting  her.  She  denied  this  with  indignation. 
To  herself  she  admitted  she  liked  to  be  alone  with 


112  GARGOYLES 

him.  He  was  a  sour-minded  man  with  a  liver-red 
face,  a  patrician  nose  and  the  look  of  a  man  of  im- 
portance. But  he  was  too  thin  and  too  short  to  live  up 
to  this  look. 

In  the  presence  of  others  he  usually  fell  into  a 
silence  unless  one  of  the  two  or  three  subjects  on 
which  he  felt  himself  an  authority  came  up.  These 
subjects  were  things  that  had  to  do  with  advertising — 
effective  copy,  effective  display,  prices,  results.  Mr. 
Ramsey  was  in  the  advertising  business. 

Mrs.  Basine's  embarassment  at  his  arrival  was 
caused  by  her  sympathy  for  the  man  and  her  resent- 
ment of  his  weakness.  She  knew  exactly  what  would 
happen.  Tom  Ramsey  would  sit  through  the  evening, 
scrupulously  polite  to  everyone,  saying,  "Yes,  yes. 
Quite  right.  Oh,  of  course.  That's  absolutely  right 
.  .  .  Indeed,  I  agree  with  you  ..." 

For  the  first  few  minutes  he  would  impress  every- 
one as  a  man  of  character  and  intelligence.  But  grad- 
ually this  impression  would  fade  and  people  would 
stop  talking  to  him  and  eventually  ignore  him  alto- 
gether in  the  conversation. 

Why  this  happened  Mrs.  Basine  could  never  de- 
termine. But  it  did  and  it  always  hurt  her.  Mr.  Ram- 
sey, smiling  exuberantly  through  the  introduction,  his 
thin  body  alive  in  the  slightly  overheated  room,  would 
in  an  hour  become  Mr.  Ramsey  sitting  glassy-eyed 
and  polite  in  a  corner,  his  liver-red  face  holding  with 
difficulty  a  grimace  of  enthusiastic  attentiveness.  He 
would  make  sporadic  starts  trying  to  recover  some- 
thing. When  the  talk  grew  boisterous  and  everyone 
was  making  puns  and  delivering  himself  of  bouncing 
sarcasms,  Ramsey  would  try  to  become  part  of  the 


GARGOYLES  113 

scene  in  a  way  that  always  startled  the  company.  He 
would  come  to  life  with  mysterious  suddeness  and 
hurl  a  jest  into  the  common  pot.  His  manner,  however, 
focused  attention  on  himself  rather  than  his  words. 
In  back  of  the  drollery  he  offered  would  be  a  desper- 
ation, in  fact,  sometimes  a  sense  of  fury.  People  would 
stare  at  him  for  an  instant  thinking,  "What  an  odd, 
impossible  man."  And  in  their  contemplation,  forget 
to  laugh  at  his  remark,  forget  even  to  answer  it.  And 
he  would  be  left  stranded  in  a  silence — a  conversation- 
al castaway.  A  moment  later  he  would  collapse,  sit 
glowering  in  his  chair,  looking  angrily  at  the  carpet. 
This  was  painful  to  Mrs.  Basine  since  she  had  grown 
to  understand  him. 

When  they  were  alone  Ramsey  became  a  different 
man.  He  talked  to  her  usually  about  people  he  had 
met  in  her  house.  At  such  times  he  was  master  of 
caricature.  Their  absurdities,  pompousness*  banalit- 
ies, hypocricies  took  grotesque  outline  in  his  words. 
His  method  was  unvarying.  It  was  based  upon  a 
crude,  vicious  skepticism,  inspired  in  turn  by  a  fan- 
atic resentment  of  success  in  others.  He  seemed  de- 
termined always  to  prove  to  his  own  and  her  satis- 
faction that  despite  their  pretentions  people  were  no 
more  successful  than  he.  His  nature  seemed  unable 
to  tolerate  the  thought  of  superiors.  At  the  same 
time  people  he  encountered,  particularly  in  the  Basine 
home,  managed  always  to  override  him,  to  reduce  him 
to  silence,  to  deflate  him. 

He  would  retire  into  himself,  protesting  vicious- 
ly at  the  injustice  of  this  phenomenon.  And  while 
he  sat  in  silence  he  would  seek  to  wipe  out  the  con- 
sciousness of  his  own  inferiority  by  attacking  with 


1 14  GARGOYLES 

contempt  the  people  around  him.  He  would  sit  be- 
littling and  ridiculing  the  company  to  himself  until  he 
had  hypnotized  himself  with  a  conviction  of  their 
general  worthlessness  and  inferiority.  Bolstered  up 
by  this  treacherous  conviction,  he  would  come  sud- 
denly to  life  with  a  grotesque  sense  of  magnitude  in 
his  mind.  He  was  a  giant  among  pigmies,  a  Socrates 
among  clowns!  Who  were  these  numbskulls  and 
fourflushers  that  they  thought  they  were  better  than 
he  was!  He  would  show  them!  He  would  step  forth 
and  by  a  single  gesture,  a  scintillant  phrase,  reduce 
them  to  their  proper  place. 

And  the  company  would  find  itself  staring  for  an 
instant  at  a  thin,  little  man  with  a  wild  look  in  his 
eyes  and  a  snarling  quiver  in  his  voice,  saying  some- 
thing not  quite  intelligible — usually  an  involved  pun 
or  a  tardy  comment  on  some  issue  under  discussion. 
The  intensity  of  the  sullen-faced  little  man  with  the 
patrician  nose  embarrassed  them  for  the  moment.  Not 
as  much  as  it  did  Mrs.  Basine  whose  heart  would  al- 
most break  at  the  spectacle,  but  enough  to  make  them 
feel  it  were  best  to  ignore  this  curious  Mr.  Ramsey 
and  not  let  on  what  a  fool  he  somehow  made  of  him- 
self. 

Ramsey's  indignation  toward  people,  his  sour  skep- 
ticism of  their  values,  was  his  futile  way  of  reassuring 
himself  of  his  own  worth.  Futile,  because  he  had  no 
conviction  of  this  worth.  When  he  sat  denouncing  in 
silence  the  talkers  around  him,  ridiculing  and  belit- 
tling them,  it  was  merely  a  less  painful  outlet  for  the 
contempt  he  had  of  himself. 

He  had  been  since  his  youth  ridden  by  this  inner 
feeling  that  he  was  a  fool,  a  weakling,  not  quite  a 


GARGOYLES  115 

man.  It  had  started  in  his  boyhood  when  the  nick- 
name "Sissy"  had  been  attached  to  him.  His  high- 
pitched  voice,  his  thin  body  and  his  unboyish  modesty 
had  earned  him  the  name.  As  he  had  grown  older 
the  fact  that  he  did  not  care  for  girls  as  other  youths 
did,  and  that  he  sometimes  played  with  them  as  if 
he  were  a  girl  himself,  had  not  escaped  the  keen,  cruel 
eyes  of  his  companions.  The  name  "Sis"  Ramsey  had 
stuck. 

In  order  to  convince  these  companions  of  his  mas- 
culinity he  had  thrown  himself  with  violence  into  their 
roughest  games.  In  highschool  he  had  sought  to  es- 
tablish himself  as  a  hardened  sinner — a  drinker  and 
tough  citizen.  Despite  his  slight  body  he  had  de- 
veloped into  a  creditable  athlete.  More  than  that  he 
had  become  known  as  a  fellow  who  would  fight  at  the 
drop  of  a  hat.  His  fiery  temper  became  a  byword. 

But  all  these  masculine,  or  seemingly  masculine  at- 
tributes were  part  of  his  effort  to  prove  that,  despite 
his  somewhat  odd  voice  and  his  equally  odd  indif- 
ference toward  girls,  he  was  a  man.  When  he  left 
high  school  and  started  in  the  offices  of  the  Mackay 
Advertising  Company,  the  name  "Sissy"  kad  dropped 
from  him.  He  had  no  longer  to  contend  with  the 
keen,  cruel  eyes  of  boy  companions.  Men  were  con- 
tent to  accept  him  at  whatever  value  he  chose  to  place 
on  himself,  as  far  as  his  character  was  concerned. 

The  struggle  instead  of  abating,  however,  only  in- 
creased. It  removed  itself  from  the  external  combat 
of  his  boyhood  to  an  internal  complication,  and  be- 
came the  basis  of  the  feeling  of  inferiority  which 
shaped  his  life. 

This  inner  knowledge  he  cherished,  that  he  was  in- 


116  GARGOYLES 

ferior  to  people,  was  founded  on  the  conviction  that 
he  was  impotent;  or  at  least  nearly  impotent;  that  he 
could  never  marry  and  have  children  like  other  men. 
His  mind  refused  to  acknowledge  this  fact  and  thus 
instead  of  finding1  the  comparatively  harmless  exit  of 
regret,  it  permeated  his  entire  thought  with  the  word 
— inferior  .  .  .  inferior. 

Ramsey  kept  himself  desperately  blind  to  the  cause 
of  this  permeation.  He  concentrated  on  the  detached 
word  "inferior"  and  belabored  it  with  untiring  fury. 
There  was  another  secret,  one  that  went  deeper  than 
the  hidden  conviction  of  impotency. 

In  the  indignation  which  continually  filled  his  mind, 
the  hideous  secret  that  lived  almost  within  grasp  of 
his  understanding  was  conveniently  clouded.  It  was 
the  secret  that  his  lack  of  vigor — a  fact  in  itself  that 
he  sometimes  contemplated — was  caused  by  a  still 
deeper  thing — a  thing  that  never  reached  any  clearer 
articulation  than  a  shudder. 

They  had  called  him  "Sissy"  as  a  boy  and  he  had 
not  changed  with  age.  He  had  been  able  to  repress 
the  impulses  that  sought  to  turn  him  toward  men  in- 
stead of  women  for  companionship.  He  had  repressed 
them  by  the  ruse  of  convincing  himself  he  was  an  ascetic. 

It  was,  moreover,  an  attitude  which  could  find  out- 
let. He  could  devote  himself  to  the  continual  denun- 
ciation of  others,  developing  into  a  sour,  cynical 
choleric  man  of  fifty.  A  vindictive,  unpleasing  person- 
ality. 

Mrs.  Basine  herded  her  guests  into  the  dining 
room.  Ramsey's  presence  preoccupied  her.  She 
found  herself  watching  him  as  a  mother  might  look 
after  a  sickly  child. 


GARGOYLES  117 

The  intimacy  that  had  grown  between  her  and  her 
dead  husband's  friend  had  been  too  gradual  to  trace. 
It  had  started  when  Mrs.  Basine  had  sat  one  evening 
in  the  midst  of  a  company  similar  to  this  and  thought, 
uPoor  man.  He  jumps  around  like  that  and  acts 
queerly  because  he's  ashamed  of  himself.  He's 
ashamed  of  not  being  what  he  wants  to  be." 

She  did  not  quite  understand  what  this  meant  but 
she  felt  herself  suddenly  close  to  the  man  after  hav- 
ing thought  it.  He  began  to  seek  her  company  alone 
and  more  and  more  to  use  her  as  an  audience  for  his 
ruse  of  transferring  his  self-rage  into  a  critical  indig- 
nation of  others. 

A  realization  of  Ramsey's  character  had  stirred  a 
pity  in  her  and  out  of  this  pity  she  was  careful  not  to 
let  him  see  it.  She  went  to  the  extreme  of  pretending 
a  blindness  toward  his  shortcomings  and  of  accepting 
him  for  the  thing  he  tried  to  make  himself  out  to  be 
— a  giant  among  pygmies. 

She  would  agree  with  him  in  his  attacks  upon  others, 
second  his  vicious  caricaturing  and  appear  always  im- 
pressed by  his  desperate  skepticism.  Ramsey  as  a 
result  had  come  to  regard  her  as  the  one  person  with 
whom  he  had  ever  felt  at  ease  during  his  life.  Mrs 
Basine  was  a  woman  who  understood  him,  that  is,  one 
who  was  completely  deceived  by  him.  In  her  pres- 
ence the  creature  he  struggled  unsuccessfully  to  be- 
come, the  masquerade  of  magnificence  which  his  in- 
feriority sought  futilely  to  assume — in  her  presence 
these  became  realities.  He  would  swagger  before  her, 
deride  her,  browbeat  her  and  the  rage  which  bubbled 
everlastingly  in  him  would  have  respite.  His  mind 
seemed  to  uncloud  and  his  talk  would  grow  actually 


118  GARGOYLES 

clever,  some  of  his  caricatures  bringing  an  authentic 
laugh  from  her. 

But  the  widow  as  a  rule  would  sit  listening  to  him, 
watching  his  swagger,  her  heart  laceratedby  the  poign- 
ant things  it  sensed.  It  was  as  if  he  were  a  little  boy 
dressed  up  in  an  Indian  suit  and  emitting  war  whoops 
and  she  must  sit  by  and  pretend  real  horror  of  his 
juvenile  make-believe;  as  if  he  were  someone  who 
would  drop  dead  with  anguish  in  the  midst  of  his 
laughter  if  she  were  to  say  aloud  what  was  in  her 
mind,  "Oh  you  poor  man,  I'm  sorry  for  you.  I'm 
so  ashamed  for  you." 

She  did  not  understand  why,  despite  these  things, 
she  felt  a  thrill  of  pleasure  when  she  found  herself 
alone  with  him.  Her  pity  for  the  man  seemed  a 
pleasant  excitement.  It  gave  her  a  sense  of  intimacy 
toward  him.  She  admitted  this  to  herself  but  wonder- 
ed about  it. 

There  had  been  one  evening  that  remained  con- 
fusedly in  her  mind.  He  had  seemed  unusually  buoy- 
ant, she  recalled,  after  it  was  over.  His  cleverness 
had  actually  diverted  her — his  caricatures  of  Judge 
Smith  and  Mrs.  Gilchrist  and  even  her  own  son.  She, 
had  felt  a  certain  truth  in  the  distorted  descriptions 
he  gave  of  her  friends. 

Then  without  warning  he  had  grown  violently  ex- 
cited. She  had  watched  him  with  a  fear  in  her  heart 
— a  warning  to  her  that  he  was  going  to  say  some- 
thing. She  remembered  him  walking  up  and  down  the 
room  saying,  "The  trouble  with  you,  like  with  most 
people,  my  dear  lady,  is  that  you  don't  understand 
things.  You  look  at  things  through  a  fog.  You  don't 
see  through  the  pretences  of  people.  Your  brain  isn't 


GARGOYLES  11? 

active.  It's  merely  receptive.  It  doesn't  question. 
And  what's  the  result?" 

His  voice  had  become  high-pitched. 

"You  live  your  lives  among  lies.  That's  what  you 
do.  Lies,  lies — you  thrive  on  lies.  Your  friends  are 
lies.  Your  thoughts,  everything.  Take  me  ...  Now 
take  me  ...  my  case  .  .  .  I'll  tell  you  something  you 
don't  understand  .  .  .  just  by  the  way  of  proof  .  .  . 
I'll  tell  you  something  ..." 

His  voice  had  broken  off,  overcome  by  excitement. 
He  was  walking  up  and  down  in  front  of  her,  his  eyes 
staring  wildly.  He  was  going  to  say  something,  some- 
thing about  himself.  And  for  a  moment  she  had  sat 
cringing  inside.  Why  had  she  been  afraid?  Perhaps 
because  he  had  looked  so  wildly  around  him,  like 
someone  trying  to  escape.  But  he  had  grown  silent 
and  dropped  exhausted  into  a  chair. 

She  tried  not  to  look  at  him  because  he  was  trem- 
bling and  he  had  gone  away  ten  minutes  later.  He 
had  kept  away  for  two  weeks  and  then  returned  and 
their  relations  had  resumed  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened. Her  mind  tingled  with  curiosity  but  a  fear 
restrained  her.  She  somehow  had  not  dared  ask  the 
question,  "What  were  you  going  to  tell  me  about  your- 
self." 

But  she  remembered  that  it  had  seemed  for  a 
moment  as  if  he  were  going  to  escape,  that  he  had 
looked  like  a  man  on  the  verge  of  ridding  himself  of 
an  incubus. 

Her  guests  were  getting  along  famously.  Every- 
one seemed  pleased,  happy.  They  were  chattering 
and  laughing  for  hardly  no  reason  at  all.  Mrs.  Bas- 
ine  had  no  liking  for  the  people  at  her  table.  She 


120  GARGOYLES 

despised  Mrs.  Gilchrist,  resented  Aubrey.  The  judge 
gave  her  a  faint  feeling  of  repulsion.  Henrietta  was 
a  simpleton.  Fanny  irritated  her  with  her  continual 
blushes  and  sensitive  innocence.  Doris  was  too  silent 
and  always  brooding.  And  even  George — he  some- 
how failed  to  convince  her  although  she  desired  to  be 
convinced. 

But  all  of  them  together  were  nice,  like  a  pleasing 
combination  of  colors.  People  belonged  together. 
Alone  they  had  faults.  But  when  they  came  together 
and  forgot  themselves  they  were  nice.  She  felt  proud 
of  having  them  at  her  table,  because  there  were  so 
many  of  them.  They  were  nice  people  when  they 
were  like  this — just  talking,  not  arguing  or  saying 
things  that  convinced  her  somehow  that  they  were 
wrong  things. 

Under  the  table  the  little  comedies  of  the  day  were 
playing  a  furtive  sequel.  Henrietta  sitting  next  to  Bas- 
ine  was  shyly  pressing  her  knee  against  his.  Fanny 
had  reached  out  her  foot  until  it  rested  against  an 
ankle  she  fancied  belonged  to  Aubrey.  For  a  few 
minutes  she  failed  to  connect  the  attentiveness  of 
Judge  Smith,  his  paternal  banter,  with  her  activity 
under  the  table.  But  the  suspicion  slowly  arrived. 
Her  eyes  calculated  the  position  of  the  judge's  legs 
and,  blushing,  she  withdrew  her  foot.  She  noticed 
that  Aubrey  sought  her  face  when  she  wasn't  looking 
and  that  Keegan  was  talking  with  a  blurred  politeness 
to  Mrs.  Gilchrist. 

Doris  sitting  next  to  Mr.  Ramsey  felt  annoyed. 
He  was  continually  asking  her  what  she  wanted,  pass- 
ing her  salt-shakers  and  bread-plates  and  conducting 
himself  as  if  she  were  a  helpless  child  under  his  care. 


GARGOYLES  121 

Mrs.  Gilchrist,  as  the  first  conversational  flush  in- 
spired by  the  food  subsided,  launched  into  a  detailed 
description  of  the  plans  for  the  coming  fete,  talking 
in  a  precise,  emotionless  voice. 

"I  was  saying,"  Easiness  voice  emerged  in  a  silence 
that  followed  Mrs.  Gilchrist's  talk,  "I  was  saying  that 
people  are  easy  to  get  along  with  if  you  understand 
them  and  they  understand  you.  I  had  a  case  in  court 
the  other  day  where  a  woman  was  suing  a  man  for 
breach  of  promise.  He  had  proposed  marriage  to 
her  and  then  without  reason  broke  his  pledge.  The 
woman  was  my  client." 

Murmurs  of  "how  awful";  "that  must  have  been 
interesting"  arose.  Basine  nodded  sagely.  He  had 
without  knowing  why  started  improvising  the  narra- 
tive, inventing  its  details  with  a  creditable  dramatic 
and  legal  talent.  There  had  been  no  such  case,  client 
or  denouement  but  he  continued  unconscious  of  this 
fact  in  his  desire  to  tell  the  story.  "The  man  of 
course  was  a  rascal.  An  unscrupulous  rascal.  The 
girl — my  client — a  charming,  innocent  young  thing — 
had  believed  him.  He  had  courted  her  passionately, 
— er,  I  should  say — assiduously.  I  couldn't  under- 
stand how  any  man  after  giving  his  word  and  asking 
a  girl  to  marry  him  could  possibly  be  rogue  enough  to 
do  what  he  had  done.  So  during  a  recess  in  the  case 
I  sought  the  fellow  out.  His  name  was  Jones.  We 
had  quite  a  talk." 

Basine  paused. 

"What  happened?"  Fanny  exclaimed.  "I  wish 
you'd  tell  us  more  about  your  work  than  you  do, 
George.  It's  so  interesting." 

"Yes,  go  on,"  Mrs.  Gilchrist  commanded. 


122  GARGOYLES 

Basine  hesitated.  His.  improvisation  seemed  to 
have  come  to  an  end.  He  was,  mysteriously,  at  a  loss 
as  to  how  to  make  the  lie  turn  out.  But  inspired  by 
the  attention  of  the  table  he  resumed : 

"Well,  of  course  a  lawyer  must  be  first  of  all  faith- 
ful to  his  client." 

He  paused  again.  He  had  almost  decided  to  end 
the  fiction  by  explaining  that  on  investigation  he  had 
found  the  man  to  be  right  and  that  the  defense  the 
man  had  given  him  privately  of  his  actions  had  caused 
him  to  withdraw  from  the  case.  But  this  would  sound 
quixotic,  unreal.  There  would  have  to  be  explan- 
ations. Why  had  he  started  the  lie?  To  give  it  that 
ending  so  that  .  .  .  He  smiled  a  sudden  appreciation 
of  what  he  was  doing — trying  to  excuse  his  jilting 
of  Henrietta — an  event  not  far  off  if  she  persisted 
in  holding  him  to  the  thingumabob  foolishness.  But 
he  went  on: 

"This  sometimes  prejudices  an  attorney  against  his 
opponent.  But  I  found  this  time  that  all  prejudice 
was  warranted.  The  man  was  a  thorough  rascal.  It 
had  been  his  practise  to  propose  marriage  to  girls — 
innocent  girls  of  course,  and  he  had  several  times 
managed  to  take  advantage  of  their  faith  in  him  and 
— ruin  them." 

Fanny  averted  her  eyes.  Mrs.  Gilchrist  stared  with 
an  uncomprehending  frown  at  the  talker.  The  judge 
permitted  a  grimace  of  distaste  to  pass  over  his  face 
as  he  murmured,  "The  cad.  Yes  sir,  men  are  cads." 

"My  client  won,"  resumed  Basine  with  modesty, 
"and  was  awarded  five  thousand  dollars  by  the  jury. 
But  the  law  could  not  give  her  back  the  happiness  this 
scoundrel  had  snatched  from  her  .  ." 


GARGOYLES  123 

"Had  he  ...  had  he  accomplished  his  purpose 
with  her?"  Aubrey  inquired,  aloofly  interested  in  the 
plot  details  of  the  narrative. 

"No,  fortunately,"  Basine  answered.  "But  look  at 
him  now.  Free,  although  found  guilty,  free  to  con- 
tinue his  tactics." 

He  paused  confused.  Henrietta  was  beaming  at 
him,  her  eyes  wide  with  admiration.  He  felt  he  should 
have  given  it  the  other  ending  and  cursed  himself 
silently  for  what  he  had  done.  He  had  only  made  it 
worse  when  he  had  meant  to  tell  a  story  that  would 
help  matters  and  make  her  understand  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Basine  regarded  her  son  unhappily.  She  was 
convinced  he  was  lying  because  he  usually  mentioned 
the  big  cases  he  had  and  he  had  never  before  referred 
to  any  Jones  suit.  But  she  was  unable  to  understand 
why  anyone  should  lie  without  cause  and  after  a 
moment  of  doubt  her  son's  stern  face  and  positive 
manner  managed  to  convince  her  again.  He  wasn't 
lying. 

Basine,  as  the  others  took  up  the  discussion  of  the 
narrative,  dropped  his  hand  to  his  side  and  furtively 
pressed  it  against  Henrietta's  knee.  At  this  sensation 
of  physical  contact  a  feeling  of  relief  came  to  him.  In 
the  sensual  thrill  this  contact  aroused  he  buried  the 
discomfort  of  the  words  running  through  his  head — 
"she  thinks  I'm  going  to  marry  her.  Damn  it  ... 
damn  it  .  .  ." 

He  was  startled  when,  glancing  at  her  in  the  midst 
of  his  daring  excursion  under  the  table,  he  noticed  her 
smiling  coolly  and  primly  at  Aubrey  who  was  talking. 

"Will  you  have  some  of  this?"  Mr.  Ramsey's  voice 
protruded  through  the  silence.  Several  eyes  turned 


124  GARGOYLES 

toward  him  as  if  he  were  about  to  take  up  the  burden 
of  the  talk.     Mrs.  Basine  interrupted  quickly. 

"What  was  that  book  you  told  me  about,  Mr.  Gil- 
christ,  last  month?"  she  asked.  Aubrey  looked  up  in- 
quiringly. "I  mean  your  father." 

The  elder  Gilchrist  blinked  and  seemed  to  peer 
into  the  depths  of  his  memory. 

"I  don't  remember,"  he  said  clearing  his  throat. 
They  were  the  first  words  he  had  spoken  since  he  had 
said,  "Thank  you  .  .  .  thank  you  .  .  ."  and  sat 
down  in  a  corner  of  the  Basine  library.  His  wife 
stared  at  him  as  if  he  were  a  phenomenon  unexpectedly 
revealed  to  her  gaze. 

"It  must  have  been,"  stammered  Mr.  Gilchrist, 
"Suetonius,  I  think.  Or  ...  or  the  Chevalier  de 
Boufflers  .  .  ." 

"I'm  sure  that  was  it,"  Mrs.  Basine  agreed.  "I 
must  get  that  to  read." 

The  judge  frowned  disapprovingly  upon  the  elder 
Gilchrist.  He  resented  readers.  Culture  was  a  state 
of  soul  acquired  by  being  a  gentleman,  not  by  read- 
ing books.  He  resented  also  the  impression  Aubrey 
had  left  during  the  Annexation  discussion. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  he  felt  sleepy,  the  result  of  the 
food  he  had  eaten.  And  he  was  automatically  seek- 
ing for  some  occasion  which  would  warrant  an  ex- 
pression of  dignity  or  resentment  or  anything  in  which 
he  might  hide  his  heaviness  of  spirit. 

The  sight  of  his  daughter  regarding  Aubrey  with 
£  sweet,  prim  attentiveness  supplied  him  with  what 
he  desired.  The  idea  of  Henrietta  marrying  that  fool 
was  annoying.  Old  Gilchrist  was  a  sly  dog  and  his 
wife  a  difficult  woman.  He  would  forbid  the  thing. 


GARGOYLES  125 

It  might  hurt  Henrietta  for  a  time  but  he  knew  what 
was  good  for  her.  A  mere  story  writer  had  no  real 
standing  in  the  community,  no  future.  Whereas — 
Basine  .  .  .  He  lowered  his  eyes  and  glowered  at 
his  plate  .  .  .  Nice  young  man.  Honorable.  And 
full  of  promise  .  .  .  promise.  .  .  . 


"Love  the  stars.  Love  people's  faces.  Buildings 
and  faces.  What  do  I  know  about  'em?  God  knows. 
Rotten  streets  .  .  .  Life's  a  great  harlot  that  men 
keep  chasing.  That  gives  herself  to  men — all  men, 
everybody.  I  want  her.  I  want  her." 

He  walked  angrily,  a  cap  on  his  head,  a  pipe  clench- 
ed between  his  teeth.  He  was  thinking  as  he  walked. 
Emotions  came  out  of  his  heart  and  burst  crests 
of  words  in  his  mind.  Angry  emotions.  There  was 
an  anger  in  him.  He  was  overcoming  a  feeling  of 
futility  as  he  walked. 

The  street  was  a  carnival  fringe.  Cheap  burlesque 
theatres,  arcades,  museums,  saloons.  This  was  blur- 
red. He  saw  no  lithographs.  One  side  of  the  street 
followed  along  at  his  elbow — a  slant  of  pinwheel 
lights.  On  the  other  side  across  the  street,  pin  points. 
But  he  saw  nothing.  Things  passed  unresistingly 
through  his  eyes. 

He  remembered  now  a  mile  of  walking.  The  busi- 
ness section  asleep  on  Sunday  evening.  He  had  walked 
through  that.  Darkened  windows,  ghastly  inani- 
mations. Why  was  he  angry? 

"Aw  huh !"  he  snarled.  He  was  cursing  something. 
He  asked  questions  and  answered  them.  This  got  him 
nowhere.  Stars,  buildings,  faces — he  wanted  to  knock 


126  GARGOYLES 

them  over.  That  was  inside  him,  a  wish  to  knock  'em 
over.  More  than  a  wish.  A  necessity.  But  he  could 
only  walk.  The  world  scratched  at  his  elbow.  He 
could  bite  on  his  pipe.  This  thing  hurt  him. 

People,  rotten  people.  Crazy  jellyfish  with  jelly- 
fish hearts,  jellyfish  brains.  He  could  swear  at  'em 
like  that.  But  why?  He  didn't  know.  Only  this  thing 
in  him  made  him  blow  up. 

It  was  easier  when  he  worked.  His  father  calmed 
him.  His  father  stood  over  the  bench  planning  the 
fine-grained  wood.  A  great  man  because  he  loved 
the  wood  he  cut  and  carved  into  pieces  of  furniture. 
But  jellyfish  sat  in  the  chairs  they  made  in  his  father's 
shop.  Damn  'em. 

"Love  people.  Say  something.  What?  Say  some- 
thing. Get  it  out.  Aw,  the  dirty,  filthy  swine." 

That  was  the  way  he  thought  as  he  walked.  A 
long  furious  mumble  in  him,  this  man  walked  and  saw 
nothing  but  light  slants,  spinning  windows.  He  was 
young  and  he  wore  a  cap. 

He  would  get  it  out  of  him  .  .  .  Show  'em! 
Ah,  a  nip  to  the  air.  Spring  blowing  his  heart  up  like 
a  balloon.  All  they  wanted  was  women.  And  all 
women  wanted  was  to  be  wanted.  No.  That  was 
wrong.  Damn !  Always  wrong !  His  feet  talked  better 
than  his  head.  Clap,  clap  on  the  pavement.  Where 
were  the  others  going? 

He  didn't  hate  them.  Someday  it  would  all  come 
out  like  swans  swimming.  Very  majestic.  He  would 
talk  easy  and  smooth.  But  now  people  kept  him  from 
putting  it  over.  They  wrapped  him  up.  Ideas  wrap- 
ped up  his  words  and  killed  them.  Streets,  buildings, 
stars  chewed  at  him.  He  must  knock  'em  over  and 


GARGOYLES  127 

get  himself  free.  Put  his  hands  on  things  and  knock 
Hell  out  of  'em. 

"Love  'em.  Love  'em.  How  the  Hell  .  .  .  why 
the  Hell?  Lindstrum!  Lindstrum!  That's  my 
name  ...  I  got  a  name.  I'm  the  greatest  man 
in  the  world.  The  world's  greatest  all-around  indi- 
vidual on  two  legs  walking,  smoking,  Damn  .  .  ." 

But  what  could  he  do  ?  Saw  wood,  smear  varnish 
on  wood,  monkey  around  with  wood.  That  didn't  get 
it  out.  When  he  wrote  it  came  out.  But  rotten.  He 
wrote  rotten,  crazy  rotten.  If  he  was  the  greatest 
man  why  in  God's  name !  He'd  show  'em. 

A  long  breath  brought  the  night  into  him  like  a 
sponge.  It  drained  something  out  of  him.  He  could 
grin.  A  very  evil  grin  at  a  saloon  window.  He  could 
look  around  and  notice.  That's  what  eyes  were  for. 
Look — people  walking.  Poor,  sad,  broken  people. 
So  sad  .  .  .  Ah,  tired  eyes  in  the  street  that  looked 
for  lights  outside  themselves. 

"I'm  going  nuts.    That's  what — nuts." 

But  the  mumble  went  on.  Questions  and  answers 
in  a  circle,  biting  their  own  tails.  God  forgive  them, 
all  these  people.  He  must  do  something.  Arms 
around  them  whispering  to  their  hearts  something 
that  would  say,  uYes,  yes.  I  know  it  all  about  you. 
How  you  think  one  way  and  feel  another.  And  how 
everything  ends.  How  everything  ends  in  a  little  cry 
that  goes  up." 

Love  their  faces.  Damn  it!  Love  'em  .  .  .  He'd 
show  'em.  He'd  talk  to  the  lights  in  the  street.  Why 
not? 

"Do  you  know  what?  Do  you  know?  It's  all  a 
humpty  dumpty.  Egg-heads  falling  off  a  wall  and 


128  GARGOYLES 

smashing.  But  I  know  what.  I  got  your  number. 
Wait  .  .  ." 

There  was  something  to  say.  Why?  Damn  it  ... 
not  that  way.  Hit  poor,  sad  ones  on  the  head.  Better 
the  dirty  swine  in  the  City  Hall.  Aw  huh!  Wring 
their  necks.  What  for?  Wrong.  Something  else. 
They  were  like  him.  Brothers,  everybody.  You  could 
kill  the  whole  of  them  and  there  would  be  something 
left  behind  that  was  good — Life.  But  a  better  way 
than  that  .  .  .  Don't  hit.  Arms  around  them, 
lips  to  their  hearts  and  talk  like  that.  Make  the 
hyenas  sigh.  Make  the  jellyfish  weep  softly.  Make 
the  stars  dance  in  their  idiot  thoughts.  Sing  them 
songs.  If  only  the  songs  came  out. 

It  was  evening,  spring  evening  in  a  dirty  lighted 
street,  and  he  walked  biting  his  pipe.  He  said  to  him- 
self, "What's  there  to  this  thing?  Let  us  study  it. 
Many  people  in  many  houses  and  many  streets.  And 
each  of  them  a  known  thing.  But  when  you  take  all 
of  them  together,  that's  an  unknown  thing.  If  you 
know  me,  if  you  know  one — what  then?  Nothing.  It 
remains  only  one  known.  There  is  still  everything 
else  to  know.  One  man  multiplied  by  a  million  isn't 
a  million  men  but  an  infinitude  of  millions." 

He  would  get  the  hang  of  them  all  though,  all  the 
millions.  He  would  think  it  out,  get  his  fingers  on 
something  that  didn't  exist  for  fingers  to  touch.  That 
was  art.  It  was  easy  when  you  figured  it  that  way. 

He  walked  along  often  figuring  it  that  way  and  un- 
derstanding something  that  had  no  words,  living  with 
something  that  was  like  a  strange  phantom  in  a  great 
dark  deep.  This  phantom  was  a  stranger  inside  him. 
A  phantom  like  an  insane  companion  that  had  a  way 


GARGOYLES  129 

of  putting  its  arms  around  him,  inside  him,  and  a  way 
of  holding  him  like  a  horrible  mother.  Then  when  it 
did,  he  stopped  calling  himself  nuts  .  .  .  nuts.  He 
became  silent  then  and  vanished. 

The  phantom  devoured  him.  All  there  was  of  him 
that  everybody  knew,  that  even  he  knew,  all  that  van- 
ished. The  phantom  devoured  him  and  it  was  easy 
then.  But  the  phantom  let  him  go,  took  its  arms  off 
him,  and  he  came  back,  out  of  the  deep.  Then  he  felt 
himself  leaping  up  with  a  choke  in  his  lungs,  leaping 
through  layers  and  layers  with  no  surface  to  reach. 
He  must  go  up,  up  from  the  easy  embrace  of  the 
phantom  and  keep  on  raging,  yelling  out  to  himself 
that  something  had  sent  him  shooting  up. 

Now  he  walked  and  it  was  easy.  The  night  blotted 
out  his  eyes  and  he  lived  with  himself  down  deep 
where  the  easy  embrace  waited.  Such  moments  came 
when  he  walked  and  he  must  be  careful.  That  was 
writing,  being  careful  and  watching  the  little  words 
that  danced  high  up  and  that  he  could  watch  when 
he  raised  his  eyes  from  the  embrace.  Skyrockets  far 
away,  he  watched  them  breaking  in  crazy  spatters  of 
light  against  the  top  of  things  where  the  sky  came  to 
an  end. 

He  was  thinking  like  that  now.  Lucid  thoughts  that 
he  later  stared  back  upon  and  wondered,  "What  the 
hell  were  they?  I  had  something,  what  was  it?1'  Now 
he  was  thinking  them  with  this  deceptive  lucidity  as  if 
they  were  something.  He  was  thinking  how  when  he 
was  younger,  when  he  was  a  boy,  he  used  to  run  down 
country  roads.  Apples  trees  and  rivers  and  growing 
fields  that  sang  at  night  were  there.  And  yet,  there 
was  nothing.  What  did  that  mean?  That  was  easy 


130  GARGOYLES 

to  answer.  There  was  nothing  because  it  was  all 
outside  him  in  a  marvelous  way.  When  he  was  a  boy 
long  ago,  so  long  ago,  and  he  lay  on  his  back  and 
looked  at  the  night  and  the  night  was  nothing  in  his 
head,  the  night  was  a  song  that  chanted  itself  to  him. 
The  stars  were  something  he  had  spoken.  Darkness 
was  a  sentence  echoing  off  his  lips.  And  the  world 
was  marvelously  outside  and  it  gave  itself  to  him.  The 
boy  lying  on  his  back  handed  the  world  to  himself  as 
a  gift.  There  was  nothing  to  want,  everything  to 
have.  Long  ago  when  he  was  a  boy  watching  the  day 
and  night  without  thinking. 

But  it  all  went  away.  Now  what  was  it?  That  was 
easy  to  answer.  The  night  that  had  been  a  song 
chanting  itself,  the  stars  that  had  been  his  words 
dancing,  the  darkness,  clouds,  trees,  river  and  roads, 
the  fields  and  the  people  crawling  with  tiny  steps  under 
the  cornfield  sky — these  went  away  all  together  and 
he  couldn't  find  them  any  more.  These  things  he  had 
said  without  speaking,  these  all  went  away.  Beautiful 
familiars,  they  misunderstood  something  in  him  and 
vanished  from  him. 

That  was  long  ago.  Now  he  could  remember  them 
and  his  remembering  them  was  like  hearing  them 
again.  That's  what  made  him  angry.  He  could 
hear  them  as  if  they  were  calling,  uFind  us  ... 
find  us  .  .  ."  And  he  said  back,  "All  right,  I'll  find 
you.  Wait.  I'll  come  after  you  somehow.  You're 
my  old  friends.  I'll  get  you  back.  Christ  knows  how 
— but,  wait  .  .  ." 

But  this  made  him  think  he  was  laughing  at  him- 
self, kidding  himself.  He  knew  better.  The  things 
that  had  gone  away  were  in  the  faces  of  people,  in 


GARGOYLES  131 

buildings,  in  lights,  in  streets  under  his  feet.  Christ! 
why  couldn't  he  lay  hands  on  them  again  since  they 
came  so  close  they  choked  him  and  made  him  howl  in- 
side with  choking. 

He  was  letting  go  now  again.  The  easy  embrace 
was  shooting  him  up  and  he  began  to  know  again  he 
was  nuts.  He  hung  on  to  himself  a  little  by  saying 
words  .  .  .  "Easy  boy  .  .  .  Easy  .  .  ." 

He  stopped  walking  for  a  second  and  a  happy  smile 
came  to  his  set  mouth.  The  smile  said  it  was  over. 
He  was  Lief  Lindstrum  again  and  nobody  else.  He 
could  become  calm  like  this.  It  was  like  blowing  a 
fire  out  with  a  grin.  His  head  was  clear  and  he  was 
happy.  The  street  was  like  a  merry-go-round.  The 
night  had  a  smell  of  life  in  it.  That  came  from  the 
lake.  Whatever  living  might  be  and  whatever  the 
choke  inside  him  was,  a  man  was  a  fool  to  forget  this 
other — the  calm,  grinning  strength  of  muscles  and  the 
way  his  nose  buzzed  when  he  drew  his  breath  in. 

Now  he  was  Lief  Lindstrum  walking  to  call  on  his 
girl.  And  he  could  think  of  others,  the  poor  little 
others,  the  superfluous  others.  Only  he  didn't  have 
to  get  angry  at  them.  Or  he  didn't  have  to  fall  in  love 
with  them.  It  was  just  thinking  straight.  Well,  the 
way  men  talked  to  each  other  was  funny.  The  way 
they  swapped  lies  was  funny.  Poor,  rich,  happy,  sad, 
broken,  bawling  ones — they  all  made  the  same  lies  to 
each  other.  The  government  was  a  lie.  God  was  a 
lie.  And  all  the  gabble  about  good  and  bad  and  what- 
not-to-do and  what-to-do,  and  all  the  laws  and  every- 
thing beginning  from  the  beginning  and  going  ahead 
as  far  as  vou  wanted,  it  was  all  lies.  So  many  of  them 
that  all  the  philosophers  had  never  been  able  to  begin 


132  GARGOYLES 

straightening  things  out.  And  if  somebody  found 
out  something  true,  what  then?  Well,  they  grabbed  it 
and  made  it  into  a  lie,  pronto !  used  it  as  a  lie.  The  poor 
little  crawling  ones  on  the  earth  made  up  lies  to  explain 
things  but  most  of  all  they  made  up  lies  to  keep  alive. 
If  they  didn't  lie  to  each  other  they  would  all  fall 
apart  and  vanish  because  nature  would  have  it  that 
way.  So  they  must  go  contrary  to  nature  and  keep 
on  surviving.  Nature  demanded  the  elimination  of 
the  unfit.  But  it  was  the  unfit  that  desired  most  to 
live.  So  the  unfit  made  laws  and  rules  and  institu- 
tions, and  inside  them,  protected  by  them,  kept  alive. 
So  the  will  to  live  was  the  thing  that  created  lies. 

But  the  worst  lie  the  little  people  told  was  when 
they  called  themselves  life.  That  was  the  chief  lie, 
the  Grand  Sachem  and  High  God  of  all  lies.  Because 
they  were  not  life.  They  were  part  of  something  in- 
explicable that  altogether  might  be  called  life.  But 
each  of  them  separately  was  a  dead  one,  a  dead  one 
buried  deep  in  life.  That  was  the  difference  about 
him,  Lindstrum.  He  wasn't  buried  in  life.  There  were 
moments  when  he  shot  up  like  a  man  shooting  through 
layers  of  graves.  The  others  let  the  thing  called  life 
pile  up  on  them  and  it  became  a  mystery  of  graves 
that  reached  to  the  farthest  star.  But  with  him 
there  was  no  piling  up.  He  would  keep  on  shooting 
out  of  it  till  he  had  lifted  himself  up  where  there 
were  no  graves. 

"Shh,  shh,"  he  murmured  to  himself,  "lets  not  be 
nuts  tonight.  Plenty  of  nights  for  that.  Lets  talk 
about  other  things.  About  her." 

Her  face  was  beautiful.  Dark  eyes,  dark  hair, 
silent,  that  was  like  she  was.  The  thought  of  her  made 


GARGOYLES  133 

him  grimace  inside  with  pain.  He  wanted  her  as 
much  as  that.  But  what  did  he  want  her  for?  God 
knows.  What  does  one  want  for?  In  order  to  get 
rid  of  wanting.  Nothing  else.  Kiss  her?  Bah!  She 
was  a  victory.  He  wanted  her  like  that. 

When  he  was  near  her  they  didn't  have  to  talk  or 
hold  hands.  They  came  together  in  a  different  way. 
She  was  so  beautiful.  .  .  . 

"I  love  her,"  he  said  quietly.  He  wanted  to  be 
quiet  so  he  spoke  quietly.  She  was  marvelous.  He 
would  like  to  cut  himself  up  into  bits  and  give  him- 
self that  way  to  her.  He  would  like  to  die  a  thou- 
sand different  ways  and  say,  "Here,  I  destroy  every- 
thing I  am  in  order  to  become  a  gift  for  you."'  That 
was  like  placing  oneself  on  a  burning  altar — the  ec- 
stacy  of  the  sacrificed  one.  That  was  it. 

Some  nights  like  this  the  world  became  too  small 
to  live  in.  The  city  swept  away  from  his  senses  and 
everything  in  the  city  seemed  like  a  room  full  of  cheap 
little  broken  toys  he  had  outgrown.  He  would  sit  in 
a  room  within  this  bigger  room,  a  lamp  on  his  table 
and  write.  Or  he  would  strike  out  like  this  time  and 
walk  to  her — miles  across  streets. 

"I  want  her,"  he  said.  His  thought  paused.  "But 
what  do  I  want  of  her?"  he  asked.  "I  don't  know. 
But  I  want  to  give  myself  to  something." 

And  he  began  thinking  over  how  many  ways  there 
were  to  die  as  a  gift. 

This  lighted  window  was  her  house.  The  curtains 
were  down  but  light  spurted  through  the  sides.  The 
sight  of  the  house  with  its  light-fringed  windows  de- 
pressed him.  It  was  a  disillusionment.  She  wasn't  a 
woman  then  like  he  was  a  man  but  she  was  a  part  of 


134  GARGOYLES 

things.  He  saw  her  as  he  walked  up  the  stone  steps, 
saw  her  talking  to  people.  She  had  parents.  In  his 
mind  she  lived  as  an  entity.  A  beautiful  one  without 
background  or  lighted  windows  or  stone  steps.  Some- 
one for  him.  Nobody  else. 

He  rang.  The  door  opened.  A  man  like  himself 
stood  blinking  in  the  lighted  hall. 

"Good  evening,"  said  Lindstrum.  His  voice  was 
deep  for  his  age.  He  spoke  in  a  drawl  that  seemed 
edged  with  anger.  uls  Doris  in?" 

uOh,  hello,"  Basine  exclaimed.  "Yes,  she's  in. 
Come  right  in." 

People  were  talking  in  the  next  room. 

"Company?"  said  Lindstrum.  He  didn't  want  to 
go  in.  But  Basine  was  leading  the  way.  The  supper 
had  ended  ten  minutes  ago.  The  company  looked 
up  at  him.  They  were  all  dressed  well.  Their  faces 
were  dressed  well,  too.  They  wore  carefully  tailored 
satisfactions  in  their  eyes.  When  they  smiled  their 
mouths  postured  like  ballet  dancers  in  a  finale.  They 
were  rich  people.  Their  hands  were  soft. 

The  room  blurred  before  Lindstrum.  There  was 
no  reason  for  it  now  because  he  wasn't  thinking  or 
caring  but  a  rage  crept  into  his  senses.  He  breathed 
in  deep  with  his  mouth  opened  and  the  feel  of  the  air 
on  his  teeth  and  tongue  made  his  jaw  set.  Because  he 
would  have  to  be  careful  what  he  said.  Because  he 
was  saying  inside  to  himself,  "Damn  'em.  The  scum!" 

His  eyes  brought  pictures  into  his  anger.  They 
stared  with  deliberation  into  other  eyes  and  brought 
back  messages.  He  was  being  introduced.  He  was 
saying  to  himself  deep  down,  "They're  all  alike.  Like 
peas  in  a  pod.  They  smirk  and  talk  alike.  And  they're 


GARGOYLES  135 

all  stuck  on  themselves  alike.   And  they're  aH.  liars — 
damn  liars,  all  alike." 

He  would  have  to  take  care  and  not  argue.  He 
would  sit  down.  Doris  was  upstairs  and  she  would 
appear  in  a  minute.  Then  they  would  go  for  a  walk 
and  shake  this  room  out  of  their  eyes. 

They  chattered  like  monkeys.  Satisfied  with  them- 
selves. Yes,  know-it-alls,  tickled  to  death  with  them- 
selves. An  old  man  with  a  heavy  pink  face  and  sleepy 
eyes,  a  well  dressed  old  man  they  called  Judge — if  he 
could  punch  this  guy  in  the  face,  let  his  fist  smash  into 
his  jellyface,  God !  what  a  thrill !  A  flushed  girl,  Doris' 
sister,  wiggling  her  body  in  a  chair.  What  ske  needed 
was  somebody  to  grab  hold  of  her  and  say,  "Come  on 
kid."  A  square,  hard-faced  old  woman  talking  of 
society.  What  she  needed  was  someone  to  walk  up  be- 
hind her  and  kick  her  hard.  And  when  she  raised  her 
glasses  to  look,  laugh  like  Hell  and  spit  in  her  eye. 
That  would  make  her  human!  And  this  smart-aleck 
Basine  .  .  .  Hm!  What  he  needed  was  somebody 
to  tie  him  to  a  stake  in  a  dark  prairie  and  let  the  wind 
and  rain  go  over  him  till  he  got  hungry  and  began 
to  whine.  That's  what  they  all  needed — wiad  and 
rain  to  bring  them  back  to  life. 

But  he  must  be  careful  and  say  nothing.  There 
was  Doris'  mother.  She  wasn't  so  bad.  But  this  other 
guy,  this  writing  guy,  talking  about  books!  God  I 
Why  didn't  somebody  choke  the  life  out  of  him! 
What  did  he  know  about  books  ?  And  he  talked  about 
writing!  What  was  good  writing?  He  asked  that, 
this  guy  did !  He  would  have  to  be  careful  what  he 
said  to  this  guy  and  keep  himself  from  jumping  up 
and  murdering  him.  Hell  take  all  of  them  and  make 


136  GARGOYLES 

'em  burn.  That's  what  they  needed.  He  hated  all  of 
them.  They  were  rich.  Damn  'em !  He  must  sit  and 
grin  at  them,  these  jellyfish  who  wiggled  in  their 
graves  and  called  their  wiggles  by  great  names,  who 
were  dead  .  .  .  dead  .  .  .  How  dead  they  were! 
And  happy  about  it!  Happy  .  .  .  Didn't  they  know 
how  dead  they  were? 

Doris  was  like  them.  He  was  a  fool  for  coming  to 
see  her.  As  if  she  were  any  different  from  them.  She 
belonged  with  this  filthy  crew.  She  was  a  filthy  little 
tart  like  the  rest  of  them.  Let  her  go  to  Hell.  He'd 
tell  her  to  go  to  Hell  when  he  saw  her.  She  was  one 
he  could  talk  to. 

Uh  huh,  they  were  giving  him  the  up  and  down. 
His  shoes  were  dirty.  His  collar  soiled.  His  clothes 
weren't  pressed.  That  was  thewaywiththesedeadones, 
they  made  standards  of  their  clothes  because  clothes 
were  all  they  had.  And  their  idea  was  to  make  people 
feel  inferior  who  were  inferior  to  their  clothes  or  to 
their  manners  or  to  their  other  artificialities.  But  he 
didn't  have  to  feel  inferior  if  he  didn't  want  to.  He 
was  the  kind  who  could  stand  up  in  a  graveyard  like 
this  and  say  "Go  to  Hell"  to  the  pack  of  them  and 
grin  and  walk  away  and  forget  all  about  it. 

He  noticed  they  looked  at  him  not  quite  as  they 
looked  at  each  other.  That  was  right.  They  knew  he 
had  their  number.  Mrs.  Basine,  too,  was  looking.  She 
asked : 

"I  understand  you  write,  Mr.  Lindstrum?" 

Books  all  bound  and  pretty  standing  in  a  row  with 
your  name  in  the  papers  as  a  young  writer  of  note 
and  invitations  to  speak  at  women's  clubs-r— was  what 


GARGOYLES  137 

she  meant.  That  was  what  writing  was  to  people,  to 
jellyfish. 

UI  try  to  write,"  he  answered,  making  the  correc- 
tion softly  so  that  his  words  purred. 

"You  should  know  Aubrey  Gilchrist"  said  Basine. 
"Do  you  know  his  work?" 

"I  do  not,"  said  Lindstrum  still  purring.  "What 
does  he  write?" 

Basine  chuckled  inside.  His  unaccountable  aversion 
for  Aubrey  was  growing. 

"Novels,"  said  Basine. 

"Oh,"  said  Lindstrum  dragging  the  syllable  out  and 
placing  a  huge  granite  period  after  it. 

"What  writers  do  you  like?"  Fanny  inquired  with 
a  successful  attempt  at  social  artlessness.  She  was 
looking  for  something  in  this  friend  of  Doris7.  She 
was  in  awe  of  him  because  he  was  dirty  looking  and 
because  he  swayed  as  he  sat  in  his  chair.  He  kept 
swaying  as  if  he  were  on  secret  springs  and  would 
jump  up  any  minute.  He  frightened  Fanny. 

"I  read  good  books,"  said  Lindstrum,  "books  writ- 
ten by  men." 

Mrs.  Gilchrist  sat  up  stiffly.  Her  husband  peered 
out  of  his  glasses.  He  liked  Lindstrum.  He  wanted 
to  talk  to  him.  But  he  got  no  further  than  clearing 
his  throat  several  times.  The  judge  interrupted  with 
a  glower.  He  was  given  the  floor,  eyes  turning  to  him. 
A  defender.  But  he  merely  glowered.  That  was  his 
decision,  that  settled  it.  If  he  glowered  this  moujik 
was  done  for.  He  glowered  Lindstrum  off  the  face 
of  the  earth.  But  Lindstrum  turned  full  on  him  and 
thrust  his  face  forward  as  if  he  were  going  to  come 
closer. 


138  GARGOYLES 

"What  kind  of  books  do  you  read?"  he  asked  the 
glowerer.  The  snap  in  his  voice  startled  Henrietta. 
She  was  afraid  for  a  minute  this  strange  looking 
creature  waiting  for  Doris  would  do  something  and 
she  turned  appealingly  to  Basine. 

"All  kinds,  sir,"  the  judge  answered  in  his  most 
effective  baritone.  Lindstrum  nodded  his  head  slow- 
ly and  a  grin  came  into  his  eyes.  He  kept  looking  at 
the  judge  and  grinning  and  nodding  his  head  and  just 
as  the  judge  was  going  to  say  something  Lindstrum 
abandoned  him.  He  had  turned  to  Aubrey.  Aubrey 
had  grown  eager.  A  confusion  inspired  by  an  impulse 
toward  garrulity  was  in  his  eyes.  He  wanted  to  talk 
to  this  Lindstrum  and  discuss  things  beyond  every- 
body in  the  room.  Lindstrum  thought  he  was  a  soda- 
water  clerk.  One  of  those  radicals  with  unbalanced 
ideas.  But  he  wanted  to  talk  to  him.  Perhaps  they 
had  something  in  common?  Aubrey  felt  himself  grow- 
ing angry.  But  it  was  not  an  anger  of  silences.  An 
anger  of  words.  He  wanted  to  talk,  to  reason  with 
Lindstrum  and  put  himself  over  with  Lindstrum. 
Lindstrum  was  like  a  conscience. 

"Hello  P1  The  arrival  stood  up  and  looked  at 
Doris.  He  forgot  about  calling  her  names.  She  was 
smiling  at  him  like  a  fresh  wind  blowing  through  his 
heart.  The  roomful  dropped  out  of  sight. 

"Do  you  want  to  go  for  a  walk?"  he  asked  slowly. 
"It's  nice  and  cold  outside." 

She  nodded  and  Lindstrum,  with  a  long,  deliberate 
stare  at  the  company  spoke  to  them. 

"Good  night,"  he  said.  When  he  had  said  it  he 
continued  to  stare  as  if  he  were  weighing  the  matter 


GARGOYLES  139 

over  carefully  and  should  say  something  more.  The 
pause  grew  embarassing  but  not  to  him.  Without 
nodding  his  head  he  repeated  the  result  of  his  deliber- 
ations. 

"Good  night,'*  he  said  in  the  same  voice.  That  was 
enough. 

He  left  them  sitting  in  their  chairs — a  general  calm- 
ly marching  off  the  field  of  victory.  He  left  behind  a 
silence.  The  company  was  uncomfortable. 

Mrs.  Gilchrist  and  the  judge  stared  hard  at  the 
doorway  through  which  Lindstrum  had  passed.  They 
wanted  to  insult  the  doorway.  Lindstrum's  visit  had 
had  a  curious  effect  upon  Ramsey.  He  had  sat  silent 
and  avoided  the  young  man's  eyes.  But  he  had  felt 
himself  becoming  animated  as  if  something  were  ex- 
citing him.  When  the  young  man  had  glanced  at  him 
for  a  moment  he  had  blushed  and  an  odd  nervous- 
ness had  made  his  thin  body  tremble.  Now  that 
Lindstrum  was  gone  he  felt  the  room  had  become 
empty  and  entirely  lacking  in  interest. 

"How  do  you  like  him?"  Mrs.  Basine  whispered 
at  his  side.  She  was  worried. 

"Him?  Oh  yes,  the  young  man,"  Ramsey  muttered. 
"He  ...  he  has  nice  eyes." 

10 

In  the  park  Lindstrum  sat  on  a  bench  with  Doris 
and  talked. 

"All  this,"  he  said,  "all  this  night  and  trees  and 
things  we  feel  more  than  we  see,  are  like  what  you're 
like.  But  why  should  we  call  that  love.  Because  love 
means  to  hold  a  woman  in  your  arms.  I  don't  care 
about  holding  a  woman.  I  want  to  hold  something 


140  GARGOYLES 

else.  If  you  hold  something  in  your  arms  you  haven't 
got  it.  It's  what  you  can't  get  your  fingers  on  that 
you  own  most.  Because  you  dream  about  it.  It's 
what  you  dream  about  that  you  own  most.'1 

He  spoke  disconnectedly.  There  were  pauses  dur- 
ing which  he  allowed  the  night  to  punctuate  his 
thoughts. 

"Have  you  written  any  more  things  since  last 
time?"  Doris  asked. 

uNo.    I  didn't  bring  anything  with  me." 

He  was  silent.  Doris  wished  he  would  sit  closer  to 
her.  His  silence  excited  her.  She  could  feel  things 
moving  in  him.  She  became  nervous.  Her  dark  eyes 
looked  fully  at  his  profile  and  a  pride  elated  her. 
Other  men  didn't  stare  like  that  into  the  night.  They 
had  fussy  little  eyes  and  fussy  little  bodies.  They 
fidgeted  around.  But  Lief  sat  as  if  he  were  turned  to 
granite. 

There  was  something  ominous  about  him.  The 
glint  of  his  straight  eyes  and  the  leather  color  of  his 
face  were  ominous.  She  felt  that  he  was  powerful, 
more  powerful  than  the  spaces  he  stared  into.  He 
could  stand  up  and  swing  the  park  around  their 
heads.  She  wanted  to  come  close  to  him. 

"Lief,"  she  whispered,  "why  don't  you  come  often- 
er.  I  get  lonely  for  you.  I  hardly  talk  to  anybody 
else." 

He  nodded  as  if  agreeing  with  her  and  saying 
silently,  "That's  right.  Don't  talk  to  anybody  else." 
But  he  said  nothing  aloud. 

She  wanted  to  be  the  thing  he  swung  around  his 
head.  If  he  would  take  her  up  and  destroy  her  it 
would  make  her  crazy  with  happiness.  She  closed  her 


GARGOYLES  141 

fingers  around  his  hand  and  trembled.  Her  body  felt 
weak.  Her  arms  were  as  if  she  no  longer  directed 
them.  They  were  being  drawn. 

"I'm  so  proud  of  you.  You're  so  different  from  all 
of  them,  Lief.  I  can't  stand  them  sometimes.  They're 
terrible." 

He  nodded  his  head  with  a  ponderous  air  of 
sagacity. 

"They  make  me  sick,"  she  went  on.  "All  of  them. 
They're  not  like  people  but  like  something  else.  Like 
parts  of  people." 

He  nodded  his  head  again.  She  was  all  right — this 
girl.  She  didn't  belong  with  the  pack  in  the  room  he 
had  left.  She  wasn't  a  little  slut  .  .  .  one  of  those 
lying,  filthy  ones.  But  he  was  afraid  of  her.  He 
wanted  to  keep  things  like  they  were.  If  you  let  down 
to  a  woman  she  started  climbing  all  over  you  and  ask- 
ing for  this  and  for  that.  Anyway  it  was  time  to  walk 
back  now.  There  was  a  lot  of  work  in  the  shop.  He 
got  up  at  six. 

They  walked  out  of  the  park  together.  The  spring 
night  called  for  endings.  The  darkness  hinted.  The 
day  with  its  houses  and  noises  lingered  like  an  un- 
natural memory  in  the  shadows.  What  were  people 
for?  The  darkness  hinted.  Doris  felt  a  mist  in  her 
blood.  So  curious,  the  day.  Unreal,  empty.  Noises 
that  circled,  faces  that  went  on  forever.  People  had 
been  moving  forever.  They  kept  walking  and  walk- 
ing. There  was  no  ending  to  people.  The  years 
passed  under  their  feet  like  a  treadmill  and  they  kept 
moving  on. 

Now  it  was  quiet.  Beside  this  man  she  felt  there 
was  no  more  moving  on.  Her  heart  filled  with  im- 


142  GARGOYLES 

patience.  It  was  hard  to  breathe.  Her  arms  were 
heavy,  overcrowded.  "Oh,"  she  whispered  to  herself, 
4T11  die.  I'll  die." 

But  they  continued  to  walk.  The  man's  silences, 
his  ominous  reserves,  his  sagacious  noddings  had  ex- 
cited her.  She  felt  angry  with  him.  He  had  called  for 
her  a  half  dozen  times  in  the  last  two  months.  They 
had  met  by  accident  in  a  book  store.  A  clerk  had  in- 
troduced them.  He  called  and  they  went  for  walks. 
But  he  said  nothing.  Once  he  had  told  her  she  was 
beautiful.  Another  time  he  had  mentioned,  as  if  it 
were  a  casual  thing,  that  she  was  the  sort  of  girl  to 
whom  he  would  like  to  make  a  gift.  But  of  what,  he 
didn't  know.  Some  gift  worthy,  he  said.  She  had  been 
frightened  of  him  at  first.  But  gradually  as  she  grew 
accustomed  to  his  strange  manners,  his  bristling  sil- 
ences, she  became  impatient,  angry. 

He  stopped. 

"I'll  go  this  way,"  he  announced.     uGood-night." 

He  stood  looking  at  her  for  a  long  minute  and  then 
turning,  walked  away.  She  watched  him  but  he  didn't 
look  back.  She  walked  to  the  house  alone. 

Her  thoughts  now  were  clear.  He  was  a  man  who 
didn't  want  her  but  was  looking  for  something  of 
which  she  was  a  part.  He  never  tried  to  touch  her. 
He  never  said,  "I  love  you,"  to  her.  But  he  did  love. 
She  knew  that.  He  called  it  by  other  names  and 
misunderstood  himself.  And  he  might  go  on  that  way 
till  he  died,  misunderstanding  himself.  To  be  near 
her  thrilled  him.  She  remembered  how  he  became 
taut,  immobile,  sitting  on  the  bench.  His  arms  quiv- 
ered. Yet  he  never  tried  to  embrace  her. 

She  thought  about  this  as  she  walked  to  her  home. 


GARGOYLES  143 

Would  he  ever  embrace  her?  She  knew  about  his 
silences.  She  could  even  feel  how  he  suffered  inside 
because  something  was  urging  him  that  had  no 
direction.  It  was  this  life  in  him  that  lured  her.  It  stir- 
red her  senses. 

Nothing  before  had  interested  her.  Days  had 
passed  with  no  difference  in  them.  Now  he  made  a 
difference.  When  she  remembered  him  a  pain  that 
was  like  anger  filled  her. 

She  would  go  to  bed  and  lie  in  the  dark  dreaming 
of  him  with  her  eyes  open.  A  languor  made  it  dif- 
ficult to  walk.  She  smiled  to  herself.  It  was  pleasant, 
sweet  to  think  of  him.  For  a  moment  the  image  of  his 
face  transfixed  her.  She  whispered  aloud,  "Talk  to 
me.  Oh,  please  .  .  .  please  .  .  ." 

Then  images  that  disgusted  her  crowded  her 
thought.  They  came  of  their  own  volition.  Her  sister 
Fanny  kissing  men.  Her  brother  George  kissing 
women.  Keegan,  the  judge,  Ramsey,  Aubrey  and 
Henrietta — they  disgusted  her  with  their  continual 
love-making,  kissing,  dirtiness.  People  like  that  didn't 
understand  anything  else.  Their  bodies  searched  each 
other  out  and  clung  to  each  other.  Bodies  clenched 
together — she  began  to  rage  in  silence  against  them. 
He  called  them  the  pack.  They  were  like  that — a 
pack  of  animals  with  nothing  else  but  animal  bodies 
to  live  with.  She  paused  in  her  hating,  a  chill  coming 
between  her  silent  words.  The  company  of  images  in 
her  mind  had  dissolved.  Their  faces  came  together 
and  blurred  into  a  single  face  and  she  saw  Lief  Lind- 
strum  holding  her  wildly  against  him,  his  lips  open 
and  hot  against  her  mouth.  .  . 

The  company  had  gone.  Her  family  was  left  in  the 


144  GARGOYLES 

library.  She  had  intended  going  upstairs  without 
speaking.  But  she  came  into  the  room  and  sat  down. 
Fanny  looked  at  her  with  a  questioning  innocence  that 
said,  "Dear  me,  I  wonder  what  people  do  who  walk 
in  the  park  at  night?"  Her  brother  was  talking.  He 
looked  at  her  with  a  smile  and  went  on. 

"You  mustn't  think  I'm  a  blockhead,  mother,  about 
these  people  here  tonight,  for  instance.  Just  because 
I  get  along  with  them.  I'll  give  you  my  theory  of 
people.  We  were  discussing  our  guests,"  he  explained 
turning  to  Doris.  She  nodded.  "Never  believe  them," 
he  grinned.  "They're  all  liars.  The  thing  to  do  is  to 
lie  better  than  they.  Honesty,  purity,  nobility — bah! 
I  know  what  I'm  talking  about.  That's  what  people 
tell  each  other  they  are.  And  they  are,  of  course.  Till 
they're  found  out.  You  said  a  little  while  ago  I  was 
lying.  Of  course  I  was.  But  not  the  way  you  mean. 
That  breach  of  promise  case  really  happened.  I 
wasn't  lying  about  that.  You  wait,  you'll  understand 
what  I  mean  after  a  few  years.  I'm  going  to  do 
things." 

He  stood  up  and  yawned.  Mrs.  Basine  smiled  hap- 
pily at  him.  The  day  had  tired  her.  She  felt  pleas- 
antly responsible  for  her  three  children.  Three  human 
beings  that  belonged  to  her.  At  least  she  could 
pretend  they  did.  And  sometimes  it  was  almost  as 
nice  dreaming  of  what  they  had  in  their  minds  as 
planning  her  own  tomorrows.  Basine  went  to  his  bed- 
room. 

He  undressed  and  lay  down.  Sounds  continued  in 
the  house.  Doris  coming  upstairs.  Fanny  chattering 
to  his  mother.  Water  running  in  the  bathroom.  He 


GARGOYLES  145 

turned  the  gas  out  and  lay  with  his  face  toward  the 
window. 

His  body  was  weary.  But  he  felt  young.  He 
thought  of  the  many  years  ahead  of  him.  Everything 
was  new.  Even  the  century  had  just  begun.  A  new 
century.  Life  was  a  gay  unknown.  He  thought  about 
things.  Things  filled  the  future.  They  could  not  be 
seen  or  understood  but  their  presence  could  be  felt. 
Unlived  years  stretched  ahead,  like  a  track  without 
end. 

He  must  be  careful  not  to  grow  too  serious.  Lying 
was  easy  but  he  must  avoid  getting  tangled  up.  Say 
anything  you  want  to,  but  look  out  how  hard  you 
say  it.  People  were  easy.  It  would  all  come  out 
beautifully.  Success,  power,  fame,  money,  happiness 
— they  were  all  easy.  They  would  all  come  to  him. 
People  were  fools  and  you  could  get  ahead  of  them. 
He  yawned.  He  almost  fell  asleep.  His  mind  mum- 
bled with  words.  His  day  dreams,  his  memories,  his 
weariness  jumbled  dim  pictures.  Phantoms  drifted 
without  outline  over  his  head. 

He  fell  asleep  and  dreamed  he  was  in  a  brightly 
lighted  hall.  Men  were  cheering.  Music  played  and 
people  were  yelling  his  name.  In  the  dream  he  was 
going  to  make  a  speech.  The  brightly  lighted  hall 
grew  larger  and  the  crowd  reached  as  far  as  he  could 
see.  But  he  didn't  come  out  to  make  the  speech.  In- 
stead a  woman  in  a  gaudy  dress  came  out.  Her  face 
was  white  with  powder  and  heavily  painted.  Her 
eyes  were  sunken.  In  the  dream  he  shuddered  be- 
cause the  great  crowd  would  rave  indignantly  at  the 
substitute  who  had  come  out  to  make  the  speech  for 
him.  But  instead,  a  tremendous  cheer  went  up  at  the 


146  GARGOYLES 

sight  of  this  woman  and  everybody  yelled,  "Basine  .  .  . 
Basine  .  .  .  There  he  is.  Hooray  for  Basine!" 
They  mistook  the  woman  for  him.  The  woman  be- 
gan to  make  his  speech.  The  one  he  had  prepared. 
She  spoke  in  a  tired,  hollow  voice  but  the  crowd  con- 
tinued to  cheer.  Where  was  he  in  the  dream?  There 
was  no  Basine  in  the  dream.  He  kept  wondering  about 
this.  There  was  no  Basine  but  the  crowd  thought  this 
woman  in  the  gaudy  dress  with  the  painted  face  was 
Basine  and  they  cheered  her  for  him,  calling  her, 
"Basine  .  .  ."  while  he,  hiding  somewhere,  the 
dream  didn't  say  where,  listened  to  the  woman  and 
the  cheers  and  the  shouts  of  his  name.  He  was  saying 
to  himself  with  a  feeling  of  horror,  "I  know  that  wo- 
man they  think  is  me.  It's  that  woman  Keegan  and  I 
met  once.  Keegan  and  I  met  her,  by  God!"  He  was 
going  to  stop  something  but  the  dream  went  away. 

11 

The  city  grows  and  keeps  on  growing.  People  van- 
ish. Buildings  spring  up  to  take  their  places.  The 
streets  become  full  of  vast,  intricate  activities.  People 
have  vanished  but  these  activities  keep  on  growing. 

The  city  shakes  with  noises.  A  cloud  of  noises  rises 
from  the  street  and  bursts  slowly  into  names.  Every- 
where one  turns,  doors  and  windows  chatter  with 
names.  Names  run  up  and  down  the  faces  of  build- 
ings. Gilt  names  slant  downward,  porcelain  names 
curve  like  lopsided  grins.  Names  fly  from  banners, 
hang  from  long  wires,  lean  down  from  rooftops. 

The  city  is  plastered  with  names.  Tired  men  stop 
and  blink.  They  mutter  to  themselves  in  the  street, 
"Lets  see,  where  am  I?"  Their  eyes  stare  at  an  in- 


GARGOYLES  147 

animate  dance  of  names.  Names  fall  out  of  the  sky. 
An  alphabet  face  with  eyebrows,  nose,  lips  and  hair 
made  of  names  winks  and  sticks  out  its  tongue. 

These  are  not  the  names  of  people  but  of  activities. 
As  the  city  grows  the  names  pile  up  and  reach  higher. 
Names  of  things  to  eat,  wear,  see,  feel,  smell,  dream 
of  and  die  for — they  become  too  many  to  see  and  far 
too  many  to  read.  They  drift  up  and  down  the  faces 
of  the  buildings  and  scamper  over  the  pavements  like 
a  lunatic  writing. 

The  vanished  people  no  longer  look  at  them.  But 
the  names  continue  to  pile  up  and  spread  out.  They 
are  a  city  apart.  They  no  longer  offer  clews  to  people. 
They  are  no  longer  advertisements  yelping  vividly  out 
of  the  air,  but  a  decoration.  Inscrutable  hieroglyphs 
that  salute  each  other  in  the  grave  confusion  of  win- 
dows. They  grimace  with  secret  meanings  at  each 
other  and  keep  each  other  company  in  the  night  sky. 
Like  the  people  they  too  have  become  too  many.  As 
the  city  grows  their  meanings  and  purposes  also 
vanish,  leaving  behind  a  comet's  tail  and  a  deaf  and 
dumb  good-bye. 

The  city  grows  and  devours  itself  and  ceases  to 
become  articulate  in  names.  It  shakes  and  howls  sense- 
lessly. No  one  understands  where  the  noises  come 
from  or  why.  Windows  become  too  many  to  count. 
Activities  double  on  themselves  and  tangle  themselves 
up  in  other  activities  until  each  activity  becomes  a 
mystery  to  itself.  Business  men  buried  in  business 
pause  to  blink  at  their  desks  and  mutter,  "Let's  see, 
where  am  I?" 

Underneath  the  activities  and  the  comet's  tail  of 
names,  the  vanished  ones  crawl  about  their  business  of 


148  GARGOYLES 

destinations.  They  have  remained  sedately  unaware 
of  their  disappearance.  They  have  barricaded  them- 
selves behind  activities  and  for  the  most  part  they  are 
silent.  Their  activities  talk  for  them  in  a  language 
easy  to  hear  but  difficult  to  understand.  Furnaces, 
engines,  factories,  traffic — these  talk.  Their  talk  is 
very  important.  It  is  curious  that  for  the  simple  busi- 
ness of  keeping  alive  there  should  be  so  many  activi- 
ties necessary.  It  is  also  incomprehensible. 

Among  themselves  people  offer  each  other  infor- 
mations and  interpretations.  But  these  informations 
and  interpretations  are  not  of  their  souls  but  of  their 
activities  which  have  nothing  to  do  with  them  except 
to  hide  them.  They  talk  of  business  enterprise,  of 
success,  progress,  civic  development,  industrial  achieve- 
ment, political  ideals;  of  money  made  and  money 
spent.  This  talk  sounds  very  important.  It  becomes 
an  important  part  of  the  confusion  of  activities. 

Faces  uncoiling  in  the  streets,  legs  slanting  against 
dark  walls,  suits  of  clothes — these  are  the  vanished 
people.  Masses  of  rich  and  poor  moving  on,  ever- 
lastingly moving  on  through  the  whirl  of  years.  Age 
like  a  tenacious  pestilence  shovels  them  off  a  tread- 
mill. Yet  they  remain  and  increase  and  become  hid- 
den from  each  other  by  their  too  many  selves,  hidden 
from  themselves  by  their  too  many  activities.  They 
grow  confused  and  stop  staring  at  each  other.  They 
walk  listening  to  the  shake  of  the  city,  blinking  at  the 
alphabet  face  above  them. 

The  city  is  a  great  bubble  they  have  blown.  It 
floats  over  their  heads  and  grows  greater  and  more 
dazzling.  Slowly  it  sinks  down  and  engulfs  them. 

This  bubble  talks   for  them.      Activities  talk  for 


GARGOYLES  149 

them.  It  is  easier  that  way.  Activities  say,  "We,  the 
people."  This  suffices.  The  vanished  ones  point  with 
relief  to  the  glitter  of  activities  and  repeat,  "There 


are  we." 


But  activities  grow  too  fast  and  too  intricate  to 
understand.  The  burst  of  names  becomes  too  violent 
to  grasp.  Then  the  people  lost  in  their  bubble  become 
an  insupportable  mystery  to  themselves. 

Buried  beneath  activities  that  grow  by  themselves, 
that  seem  to  pulse  with  mathematical  passions  and 
to  multiply  like  a  devouring  fungus,  the  vanished  ones 
send  up  a  clamor  for  whys  and  wherefores.  An  official 
clamor.  Life  has  become  an  enigma  deeper  than 
death.  The  cry  is  no  longer  "Who  is  God?  And 
where  does  He  live?"  But,  "Who  are  We  and  what 
are  We?" 

Surveying  themselves  they  see  nothing  and  demand 
explanations  of  this  phenomenon.  Baffled  by  their  an- 
nonymity  they  demand  identifications.  They  want  to 
be  assured  that  things  are  all  right,  that  their  burial 
is  O.  K. 

And  thus  new  explainers  and  identifiers  leap  daily 
into  existence.  These  are  the  bombinators,  the  dexter- 
ous geniuses  able  to  translate  the  insupportable  mys- 
tery of  life.  Life  is  a  mumble  mumble,  a  pointless 
delirium.  People  feel  this  and  grow  very  serious.  They 
feel  life  is  a  little  breath,  a  whimsical  zephyr  caper- 
ing for  a  moment  through  space. 

But  these  are  insupportable  feelings.  It  is  easy  for 
the  fish  in  the  sea  to  feel  like  that  but  in  people  there 
is  a  mania  for  direction.  Out  of  this  mania  is  born 
the  necessity  of  illusion — the  illusion  of  direction. 
There  must  be  illusion.  Life  is  not  a  mumble  mumble 
but  a  clear  voice  teeming  with  precisions.  Not  a  point- 


150  GARGOYLES 

less  delirium  but  a  vast,  orderly  activity  that  has 
names — too  many  names  to  count. 

As  children  demand  lights  in  the  darkness,  grown 
older  they  demand  illusions  in  life.  Their  reasoning 
is  simple.  "We  are  so  puny,"  they  think.  'There  is 
hardly  anything  to  us.  We  dare  not  dream  or  even 
think.  Look  what  would  happen  if  we  allowed  our- 
selves to  dream.  We  would  begin  asking  impossible 
questions  of  ourselves.  Why  are  we?  What  lies 
under  our  senses?  So  we  must  put  away  dreams  and 
thought.  They're  dangerous.  But  without  them  we 
become  insufficient  to  ourselves.  We  become  incom- 
plete. So  make  us  a  part  of  something  outside  our- 
selves that  we  may  remain  unaware  of  our  insuffici- 
ency. Make  us  a  part  of  laws  and  ideas,  Gods, 
systems  and  activities.  We  are  frightened  by  what  we 
do  not  know.  And  above  the  highest  names  on  our 
buildings  is  a  circle  of  unknowns.  Dispel  this  circle  so 
that  we  may  be  rid  of  our  fear.  Give  us  paths  to  trav- 
erse, goals  to  struggle  toward  and  make  these  paths 
and  goals  outside  ourselves.  We  dare  not  adventure 
inside  ourselves  because  that  way  is  inimical.  Inspire 
us  with  great  outward  purposes  so  that  the  inward 
purposelessness  of  our  lives  that  would  devour  us  in 
enigmas  will  be  obscured." 

The  illusion-bringers  arise — dexterous  craftsmen 
able  to  fashion  purposes,  Gods,  ideals.  Their  work  is 
to  create  heroic  destinations,  to  invent  objectivity. 
These  are  the  geniuses.  They  provide  the  sanities 
which  are  the  vital  solace  for  terror.  They  invent 
masters  because  masters  are  necessary  since  to  have 
a  master  is  to  have  an  objective-servitude.  The 
instinct  for  servitude  is  an  old,  unfailing  friend.  It  rep- 


GARGOYLES  151 

resents  the  clamor  for  an  outward  purpose  to  conceal 
the  inner  purposelessness  of  the  vanished  ones.  And 
the  geniuses  are  those  in  whom  the  instinct  for  servi- 
tude inspires  new  visions  of  lovlier  masters.  Thus  is 
progress  made — by  increasing  and  making  more  defi- 
nite the  demands  of  masters. 

Once  the  geniuses  found  their  task  simple.  Now  it 
grows  difficult.  Famous  masters,  famous  illusions, 
famous  objectives  lose  their  value.  Their  capacity 
for  solace  dwindles.  The  illusion  of  God  grows  dim. 
The  illusions  that  bore  the  names  Zeus,  Buddha, 
Moses,  Jesus,  Mohamet  are  fading.  The  knees  of 
the  race  have  stiffened  with  vanity  and  prayer  grows 
difficult.  The  great  Heavens  overladen  with  their 
angel  choirs  and  hierarchies  tumble  about  the  ears  of 
people.  Slowly  the  reservoirs  of  faith  in  consoling 
myths  dry  up.  Epigrams  have  almost  sponged  away  one 
of  the  immemorial  deeps  of  the  soul. 

The  geniuses  cast  about  inventing  new  masters, 
masters  who  will  reward  and  punish  and  establish 
paths  to  traverse  and  goals  to  achieve.  As  the  activi- 
ties increase  and  as  people  vanish  deeper  under  the 
self-growing  fungus  of  finance,  industry,  government, 
they  develop  a  paradoxical  vanity.  A  vanity  by  which 
they  seek  to  preserve  themselves.  A  vanity  becomes 
necessary  that  will  save  them  from  the  knowledge  of 
their  inferiority  to  life.  ..  Their  age-old  illusion  of 
Gods  on  High  drifts  away.  The  new  illusion  slowly 
unfolds.  Again  the  reasoning  is  simple. 

The  race  speaks  .  .  .  "There  is  no  longer  a  God 
or  a  Heaven  of  futures.  The  words  eternity  and  in- 
finity are  bottomless  and  no  longer  hold  us  or  guide 
us.  But  we  must  have  a  master,  one  who  will  enable 


152  GARGOYLES 

us  to  dream  of  His  recompense  since  we  still  dare  not 
adventure  in  dreams  of  our  own.  And  this  master 
must  assure  us  as  our  old  master  did — that  there  are 
great  purposes  in  life,  great  rewards.  We  will  make 
a  minor  change  in  our  theology.  Once  it  was  our 
desire  to  think  of  ourselves  as  having  been  created  in 
the  image  of  God — a  Superior.  This  was  when  we 
were  strong,  when  we  walked  the  earth  and  wore  our 
destinies  like  gay  feathers  in  our  caps.  Now  we  have 
grown  diffused  and  weak.  The  world  is  no  longer 
simple  enough  for  us  to  understand  and  ignore.  We 
dare  not  ignore  our  disappearance  from  life.  There- 
fore in  order  to  compensate  for  this  disappearance  we 
will  create  a  God  in  our  image  and  worship  Him.  The 
deeper  we  sink,  the  further  we  vanish,  the  higher, 
nobler  and  more  powerful  will  we  make  our  new  God. 
Come,  illusion  mongers,  we  desire  a  new  God.  We 
desire  a  new  Heaven.  Make  us  a  Heaven  of  quick- 
silver in  which  we  may  see  not  Jehovah  who  is  a  myth 
but  our  own  image  glorified,  which  is  closer  to  reality, 
and  which  our  dawning  intelligence  may  more  easily 
swallow.  In  this  heaven  let  us  see  our  civic  virtues 
magnified.  We  want  for  a  master  an  idealization  of 
ourselves,  whom  we  may  serve  in  hope  of  rewards." 
Thus  the  vanished  ones  stare  aloft  and  slowly  the 
heavenly  mirror  spreads  itself  for  them — a  mirror  of 
identifications  and  explanations.  It  is  all  clear — or  at 
least  it  grows  clear — in  this  mirror;  who  we  are  and 
what  we  are.  ...  A  beautiful  image  marches  arcoss  its 
face.  It  is  the  image  of  the  vanished  ones,  ennobled 
and  deified — become  a  new  illusion,  become  a  God- 
like creature  with  flashing  eyes.  A  marvelous,  unsur- 
passable creature  whose  every  gesture  is  perfection, 


GARGOYLES  153 

whose  every  grimace  is  unsurpassable  perfection.  A 
reassuring  God.  Whatever  their  moods,  their  despairs, 
their  manias — they  have  only  to  look  up  and 
see  them  ennobled  and  deified  in  the  mirror-heaven. 

Gazing  aloft  the  vanished  ones  raise  their  voices  in 
a  cheer  of  triumph. 

uWe  are  confused.  We  have  disappeared.  Our 
activities  have  devoured  us.  But  we  are  not  afraid. 
For  behold,  whatever  we  do,  we  remain  God.  See  our 
reflection.  We  are  always  and  consistently  perfect. 
Our  stupidities,  hysterias,  bewilderments  shine  back 
at  us  out  of  this  new  Heaven  as  God-like  attributes. 
Wisdom  and  victory  smile  at  us  eternally  out  of  our 
mirror.  Let  the  city  devour  itself  and  become  a  jungle 
of  names.  Let  life  lose  itself  in  the  labyrinth  of 
activities.  Let  the  buildings  devour  life  until  it  becomes 
less  than  a  tiny  warmth  under  huge  ribs  of  steel. 
These  things  are  no  longer  insupportable.  There  is 
an  answer  always  to  "Who  are  we  and  what  are  we?" 
We  are  God.  By  worshipping  ourselves  we  may  now 
dispel  the  dawning  knowledge  of  our  insufficiency.  The 
old  God  is  dead.  He  was  an  illusion.  The  new  God 
alone  now  has  the  power  to  punish  and  reward.  We 
will  kneel  with  fanatical  servitude  before  the  image 
of  our  virtues  and  punish  ourselves  with  a  terrible 
justice  in  order  to  appear  God-like  in  our  own  eyes." 

Slowly  the  new  heaven  above  the  city  grows  and 
the  vanished  ones  with  the  eyes  of  Narcissus  stare  en- 
chanted into  its  quicksilver  depths. 

12 

In  the  days  that  followed  her  walk  with  Lindstrum 
in  the  park,  Doris  Basine  abandoned  herself  to  her 
passion  for  the  man.  Her  body  desired  him.  She 


154  GARGOYLES 

dreamed  of  their  coming  together  as  of  some  trans- 
cendental climax. 

But  the  months  passed  and  Lindstrum  held  himself 
aloof.  She  felt  certain  of  herself  though.  It  was 
only  necessary  to  wait.  She  could  go  on  dreaming  of 
him  and  waiting  too.  To  think  of  him,  to  remember 
he  was  alive,  this  for  the  time  was  happiness  enough. 

After  a  number  of  months  they  saw  each  other 
oftener.  He  seemed  to  grow  more  dependent  on  the 
fanatical  admiration  of  her  eyes  and  words.  Her  flat- 
tery stirred  an  excitement  in  him  that  he  was  learning 
to  utilize  in  writing.  The  fact  that  he  was  loved  made 
it  easier  to  write.  The  memory  of  the  things  she  said, 
of  the  desire  in  her  eyes  was  like  music.  It  was 
easier  to  write  with  music  playing  in  his  head.  But  the 
more  he  wrote  and  dreamed  of  writing  the  less  he 
desired  her.  So  her  passion  became  an  applause  urging 
him  from  her. 

He  would  listen  trembling  to  her  gradually  shame- 
less avowals. 

"You're  so  wonderful.  So  remarkable.  You're  the 
only  man  in  the  world  that's  alive.  Your  genius  is 
something  I  can't  even  talk  about.  It  must  be  wor- 
shipped. I  love  you." 

In  the  midst  of  such  monologues  she  would  sudden- 
ly vanish  from  Lindstrum's  thought.  Her  beauty  and 
desire  were  powerless  to  hold  his  attention.  Her  en- 
fevered  praise  would  become  a  lash  that  drove  him 
into  himself.  And,  trembling  with  a  passion  that  her 
love  had  aroused,  he  would  leave  her.  But  it  would 
be  a  passion  which  demanded  possession  not  of  her 
but  of  himself. 


GARGOYLES  155 

He  would  walk  excitedly  to  his  room  over  his 
father's  shop  and  sit  down  to  write. 

After  many  months  Doris  began  to  understand.  He 
brought  her  poems  he  had  written;  poems  like  night 
music  and  passion  music.  She  felt  his  heart  throbbing 
among  their  words.  Even  his  body  was  in  them.  What 
she  wanted  of  him  he  gave  to  the  poems  he  wrote. 

She  announced  herself  at  home  as  tired  of  her  sur- 
roundings and  dependence.  Through  the  aid  of  a 
friend  she  secured  a  job  as  clerk  in  a  large  bookstore. 
One  evening  she  came  home  to  tell  her  mother  she 
was  going  to  move. 

Basine  entered  the  argument  that  followed.  To 
her  surprise  he  took  her  side,  agreeing  with  her  that 
a  modern  young  woman  had  a  better  chance  of  real- 
izing herself  if  she  lived  alone  and  made  her  own  way. 

Mrs.  Basine  refused  to  be  convinced.  Not  about 
the  theories,  she  explained,  but  about  Doris.  When 
her  two  children  argued  with  her  she  felt  herself  the 
victim  of  a  conspiracy.  Why  did  Doris  want  to  leave 
her  home?  And  why  did  George  want  her  to?  The 
answers  didn't  lie  in  the  arguments  they  gave.  But 
because  she  was  unable  to  determine  what  the  answers 
were,  she  assented.  Later  she  thought, 

"If  I  hadn't  given  my  consent  she  would  have  done 
it  anyway.  This  way  I've  saved  her  from  being  dis- 
obedient." 

Doris  took  up  her  life  in  a  two-room  apartment  on 
the  near  north  side  of  the  city.  The  district  was  alive 
with  rooming-houses,  little  stores,  lovers  who  walked 
hand  in  hand  at  night,  artists  who  tried  to  paint, 
writers  who  worked  as  clerks  and  tried  to  write,  work- 
ingmen,  artisans,  derelicts.  Everyone  seemed  alone 


156  GARGOYLES 

in  this  district  and  on  warm  evenings  groups  of  strang- 
ers sat  stiffly  on  the  stone  steps  of  the  houses  and 
stared  at  the  sky. 

Doris  was  able  to  live  on  her  salary.  She  made 
friends  and  her  evenings  were  devoted  to  conversa- 
tions. But  they  were  a  curious  type  of  friends.  They 
were  men  and  women  one  got  to  know  only  by  their 
ideas.  One  became  acquainted  with  their  ideas,  then 
familiar  with  them,  then  onterms  of  intimacy  with  them. 

It  had  been  different  at  home.  At  home  she  knew 
men  and  women  as  they  were.  They  sat  around  and 
talked  and  if  you  listened  to  what  they  said  you  came 
close  to  them.  You  understood  them  and  when  they 
said  good-night  you  knew  where  they  were  going.  You 
knew  all  about  them,  where  they  worked,  their  family, 
their  homes.  They  grew  into  familiars  as  uninterest- 
ing and  unmysterious  as  your  own  relatives. 

But  here  where  Doris  had  come  to  live  were  men 
and  women  about  whom  you  never  learned  anything. 
They  talked  and  talked  but  all  the  while  you  wondered 
where  they  worked,  what  things  were  in  their  hearts. 
You  wondered  how  they  lived  and  what  they  did  all 
the  time.  But  you  never  found  out.  Such  informa- 
tions were  not  a  part  of  the  talk  that  went  on.  It 
was  all  talk  about  outside  things,  about  politics  and 
women  and  art.  Everybody  in  the  circle  Doris  entered 
became  familiar  in  a  short  time.  But  after  they 
had  become  familiar  there  remained  this  mystery 
about  them.  What  sort  of  people  were  they  under 
their  poses  and  behind  their  words? 

The  most  curious  change  her  freedom  brought, 
Doris  was  a  garrulity  that  surprised  even  herself.  She 
became  adept  in  arguments  vindicating  the  emancipa- 


GARGOYLES  157 

tion  of  her  sex  and  proving  that  the  ideals  and 
standards  by  which  women  lived  were  the  rose-covered 
chains  forged  for  their  enslavement  by  man. 

But  her  garrulity  did  not  deceive  Doris.  She  grew 
more  clearly  aware  of  herself.  She  knew  that  her 
entire  upheaval,  her  taking  up  new  ideas,  her  repudiat- 
ing conventions  had  been  inspired  by  a  single  factor. 
She  wanted  to  live  alone  in  a  room  so  there  would  be 
no  difficulty  in  giving  herself  to  Lindstrum  when  the 
opportunity  came. 

With  this  in  mind  she  had  deliberately  converted 
herself  into  a  "new  woman,"  since  an  expression  of 
the  new  womanhood  was  independence  of  family  and 
since  independence  of  family  meant  a  room  to  herself. 
Of  this  subterfuge  Doris  became  tolerantly  aware. 
Her  hypocricies  did  not  concern  her.  In  her  desire 
for  the  man  she  loved  the  surfaces  of  her  life  dis- 
appeared like  straws  in  flame. 

Lindstrum  had  visited  her  in  her  new  quarters  with 
misgivings.  When  he  was  alone  he  often  sat  thinking 
of  her  and  repeating  her  ardent  phrases.  This  helped 
him  to  make  love  to  himself,  to  seduce  the  strange 
companion  who  lived  in  the  depths  of  his  soul  into 
embracing  him.  Out  of  this  embrace  came  words.  Out 
of  the  ecstacy  these  hypnotisms  induced,  he  was  able 
to  create  gigantic  phrases,  mystic  sequences  of  words 
whose  reading  often  inspired  people  with  an  excite- 
ment similar  to  the  emotion  that  had  produced  them. 
Women  in  particular  grew  emotional  at  the  contact  of 
his  written  words.  When  he  read  his  poetry  to  some 
of  them  who  were  his  friends  they  closed  their  eyes 
and  thought  he  was  making  love  to  them. 

Lindstrum  utilizing  the  adoration  Doris  gave  him 


158  GARGOYLES 

as  a  means  of  self-seduction,  remained  aware  of  the 
danger  this  offered.  The  danger  was  summed  up  in 
the  word  "marriage."  At  twenty-six  his  sexual  im- 
pulses found  sublimated  outlet  in  the  orgies  of  self- 
seduction  which  he  called  his  creative  work.  Thus 
his  physical  nature  clamored  for  no  other  mate  than 
his  own  genius,  and  the  lure  of  marriage  as  a  legal- 
ized debauch  failed  to  touch  him.  His  egoism  like- 
wise found  a  more  perfect  surfeit  in  his  own  self- 
admiration  than  in  that  of  others.  He  saw  in  mar- 
riage merely  a  forfeit  of  his  privacy  and  an  intruder 
upon  his  self-love. 

Doris  studying  him  carefully  from  behind  her 
abandonment  discovered  the  barrier. 

"I  don't  want  ever  to  marry,"  she  explained  to  him. 
This  started  talk  in  which  Lindstrum  defended  mar- 
riage as  an  institution.  He  grew  eloquent  on  the  sub- 
ject that  society  and  civilization  were  dependent  upon 
marriage  and  that  a  man  who  sought  to  dispense  with 
it  was  merely  being  unfaithful  to  himself  as  a  mem- 
ber of  society. 

Doris  saw  through  the  angry  phrases  of  her  friend 
that  he  was  trying  to  tell  her  how  little  he  desired 
her.  He  was  defending  marriage  and  proclaiming 
his  belief  in  it,  in  order  to  excuse  his  physical  indiffer- 
ence toward  her,  both  in  his  own  eyes  and  hers.  Since 
she  had  said  she  thought  marriage  was  an  abomin- 
ation, he  could  safely  defend  it  without  compromis- 
ing himself.  He  need  have  no  fear  that  she  would 
agree  with  him.  In  this  way  his  pose  as  a  moralist 
was  a  convenient  method  of  concealing  the  fact  that 
he  had  no  impulse  toward  immorality.  He  could  even 
insist  with  impunity  that  she  marry  him  and  so  use 


GARGOYLES  159 

her  rhetorical  stand  against  marriage  in  general  as  a 
personal  refusal. 

Doris  allowed  matters  to  drift  through  the  year. 
One  winter  night  Lindstrum,  invited  innocently  to 
occupy  the  sofa  in  the  studio  rather  than  to  tackle  the 
storm-bound  transportation  outside,  consented.  He 
sat  reading  things  he  had  written  until  midnight  came. 

He  did  not  see  how  it  had  happened  but  when  he 
looked  up  after  one  of  his  readings  Doris  was  sitting 
before  the  small  grate  fire.  Her  face  was  turned  from 
him  and  he  stared  at  her.  She  had  undressed  and 
slipped  a  green  silk  robe  over  her  body.  Her  black 
silk  stockings  gleamed  like  exclamation  points  in  the 
firelight.  Her  throat  and  breasts  were  visible  and  the 
shadows  mirrored  themselves  in  her  white  arms. 

As  he  looked  at  her  the  warmth  of  the  room  seem- 
ed to  bring  her  closer.  He  thought  her  beautiful  and 
standing  up  went  to  her  side.  His  hand  sought 
clumsily  to  caress  the  hair  coiled  on  her  head.  He  stood 
silent,  remembering  how  she  loved  him.  Always  the 
thought  excited  him.  But  now  he  seemed  to  be  think- 
ing about  it  with  a  curious  calm.  There  was  some- 
thing about  a  woman  who  loved  that  was  •  beyond 
words  to  figure  out. 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  smile.  A  faint  odor 
stirred  from  her.  He  found  himself  drawing  deep 
breaths  and  staring  at  her  with  a  heavy  pain  in  his 
arms.  The  pain  she  had  always  brought  to  him  and 
out  of  which  he  had  made  his  words.  Now  this  was 
easier,  simpler — to  reach  his  arms  around  her  .  .  . 

...  "I  belong  to  you  now,"  she  whispered  as  the 
dawn  lighted  the  room.  The  fire  in  the  grate  still 


160  GARGOYLES 

burned  feebly.  They  had  kept  it  alive  during  the 
night. 

"You  see/'  she  went  on,  "I  was  right  about  not 
marrying.  We  can  love  each  other  like  this  without 
marrying  ever.  Oh  I  love  you  so.  You  make  me  so 
happy. 

"Yes,"  he  murmured  sleepily,  intent  upon  the 
whitening  room.  "Dawn — the  white  shadow  of 
night,"  whispered  itself  through  his  mind.  But  he 
said  nothing.  After  an  interval  he  repeated  as  if 
delivering  himself  of  innumerable  ideas — "Yes." 

Lindstrum  slowly  extricated  himself 
from  the  lure  of  her  passion.  For  months  her  love, 
dissolving  rapturously  in  his  embrace,  remained  a  flat- 
tery too  bewildering  to  resist.  He  allowed  himself 
then  to  yield  to  the  slowly  accumulating  demands  of 
his  mistress.  Nevertheless  in  a  month  he  had  lost 
interest  in  his  own  sensations.  The  thought  of  impend- 
ing embraces  in  the  studio  failed  to  arouse  him  .  .  . 
There  was  nothing  Doris  had  to  give  that  was  com- 
parable to  the  delicious  elation  his  own  self-seduction 
held  for  him. 

But  although  the  physiology  of  sex  lost  its  attrac- 
tion for  him,  he  remained  interested  in  Doris'  sub- 
mission. Her  delight  in  his  caresses  and  her  exclama- 
tions of  arduous  love  fascinated  him  as  a  species  of 
applause.  He  grew  able  to  resist  the  contagion  of 
her  sensualism  and  to  make  her  happy,  without  essen- 
tially occupying  himself. 

In  the  second  year  of  their  association  he  gradu- 
ally undermined  her  passion.  Aware  of  his  complete 
coolness,  Doris  fought  successfully  to  suppress  the 


GARGOYLES  161 

ecstacies  he  was  able  to  stir  in  her.  Their  relations 
by  degrees  returned  to  a  platonic  basis. 

Lindstrum  was  becoming  known.  His  poetry  print- 
ed in  fugitive  labor  gazettes  was  attracting  a  slight 
attention.  He  was  being  identified  as  a  poet  of  the 
masses.  The  masses,  however,  unable  to  understand, 
let  alone  appreciate  the  mystic  imagery  and  elusive 
passion  of  his  vers  libre  phrasings  remained  oblivious 
to  him.  They  continued  to  read  and  swear  by  the 
newspaper  jinglers  celebrating  in  rhyme  the  platitudes 
which  kept  them  in  subjugation.  His  fame  was  be- 
ginning through  the  enthusiasm  of  a  few  scattered 
dilletantes  who  abhorred  the  masses  and  saw  in  his 
work  an  intense  technique  and  high  asthetic  quality. 

He  remained  loyal  to  Doris  in  one  respect,  still 
coming  to  her  for  the  adulation  which  somehow  quick- 
ened his  desire  to  write.  But  Doris,  with  the  repres- 
sion of  her  own  desires  had  grown  silent.  She  ap- 
peared to  relapse  into  her  former  self — the  enigmatic 
and  disdainful  virgin  of  the  Basine  library. 

But  this  simulation  included  only  her  mannerisms. 
As  a  girl  of  twenty  she  had  been  without  thought. 
Now  a  strange  intellectualism  preoccupied  her.  It 
developed  when  she  was  twenty-three  and  when  Lind- 
strum was  beginning  to  ignore  her  again.  It  began 
with  the  knowledge  that  there  were  definite  preoccu- 
pations luring  her  lover  from  her.  Against  one  of 
these  she  knew  herself  powerless.  This  was  his  desire 
to  write.  She  had  understood  this  thing  in  Lindstrum 
from  the  first.  It  had  been,  in  fact,  the  lure  of  the 
man.  But  now  it  had  taken  entire  possession  of  him 
and  had  become  her  rival. 

He  had  grown  dumb.     His  grey  eyes  no  longer 


162  GARGOYLES 

smiled  or  roved.  They  gazed  without  movement  as  if 
fixed  on  invisible  objects.  They  seemed  without  sight, 
yet  there  was  life  in  them — an  intensity  like  the  anger 
of  blindness.  He  no  longer  looked  at  things.  He 
avoided  contact  with  the  visible  and  imposed  a  delib- 
erate fog  on  his  vision.  He  went  through  his  day  un- 
aware of  details,  yet  absorbing  them;  unseeing,  yet 
translating  the  commonplaces  around  him  into  phe- 
nomena that  tugged  at  the  hearts  of  his  few  readers. 

Doris  knew  the  futility  of  combating  in  her  lover 
the  habit  of  self-seduction  now  became  a  vital  neces- 
sity. She  tried  to  establish  a  harmony  between  them 
by  turning  to  writing  herself.  The  clarity  of  her  mind 
mao\e  poetry  impossible.  Her  thoughts  refused  to 
dissolve  into  magnificent  blurs.  Her  emotions  were 
too  definite  to  find  solacing  outline  in  ambiguous  pir- 
ouettes. 

She  envied  her  lover  his  natural  aptitude  for  poetry. 
It  seemed  to  her  a  comforting  and  satisfying  evasion 
— to  write  poetry.  There  were  no  rules  of  logic, 
coherence,  technique.  There  was  even  no  rule  of 
intelligibility. 

There  was  a  man  named  Levine  with  whom  she  dis- 
cussed matters  of  this  sort,  exchanging  definitions  with 
him  of  such  things  as  life,  love  and  art.  He  was  a 
Jew  and  worked  on  a  newspaper.  Lean,  vicious- 
tongued  and  unkempt,  the  fantastic  skepticism  of  this 
man  attracted  her.  He  was  a  man  without  principles, 
ideas,  prejudices.  His  attitude  toward  life  she  sensed 
to  be  a  pose.  But  he  had  been  completely  consumed 
by  this  pose  and  the  pose  was  one  of  superiority.  His 
brain  was  like  a  magician.  It  waved  words  over  ideas 
or  problems  and  they  turned  inside  out.  Or  they 


GARGOYLES  163 

vanished  and  reappeared  again  as  their  opposites.  He 
appeared  to  devote  himself  with  a  mysterious  enthus- 
iasm to  proving  everyone  but  himself  in  the  wrong. 
When  he  read  editorials  in  the  newspapers  he  would 
comment,  "They  say  this.  But  they  mean  this."  And 
he  grew  elated  explaining  the  low,  sordid  motives 
which  inspired  the  noble-phrased  pronouncements  in 
the  press  and  elsewhere. 

When  she  talked  to  him  about  poetry  one  evening 
he  knew  her  well  enough  to  understand  she  wanted  to 
talk  about  Lindstrum.  Doris  had  tried  her  hand  at 
poetry  and  the  results  had  been  in  a  measure  satis- 
factory. Poems  had  come  out  under  her  pencil.  She 
compared  them  coldly  with  things  Lief  had  written. 
They  were  as  good  and  better.  She  offered  them  to 
Levine  to  read.  He  nodded  after  each  one  and  smiled, 
4lVery  nice.  Excellent.  Superb."  Then  he  handed 
them  back  to  her  and  added,  "I've  always  known 
this.  Anybody  can  write  poetry.  This  poetry  is  quite 
good.  But  it  remains,  you're  no  poet." 

And  he  recited  from  memory  a  few  lines  of  Lind- 
strum's  work. 

"You  see  the  difference,"  he  said.  "His  rings  truer. 
Although  yours  is  much  more  lucid  and  beautifully 
writte.n.  The  difference  isn't  between  your  work  and 
his  but  between  your  work  and  yourself  and  his  work 
and  himself.  When  Lindstrum  wrote  that  he  felt  a 
thrill  of  satisfaction.  He  had  for  a  minute  completed 
himself  in  the  poem.  Therefore  the  thing  represented 
a  certain  perfection.  When  you  wrote  you  felt  nothing 
after  writing  it.  In  an  hour  the  whole  thing  seemed 
rather  senseless  and  unworthy  of  you.  You  felt  no 
thrill  of  completion.  This  shows  that  no  matter  if  you 


164  GARGOYLES 

write  a  dozen  times  better  than  Lindstrum  the  fact 
remains  that  you're  not  a  poet  and  he  is. 

"But  why  write  poetry.  I  have  a  friend  who 
says  that  poetry  is  an  impish  attempt  to  paint  the 
color  of  the  wind.  He  hasn't  written  any  himself 
yet  but  he  will.  But  I've  warned  him.  He'll  never 
succeed.  Lindstrum  will  because  Lindstrum  has  the 
faculty  of  rising  above  logic.  He  can  recreate  his 
emotions  in  words.  Emotion  is  unintelligent,  banal, 
wordless.  The  trick  of  being  a  great  poet  is  to  make 
your  mind  subservient  to  your  emotion — the  triumph 
of  matter  over  mind,  in  other  words." 

He  noticed  an  inattentiveness  and  stopped.  He 
hoped  some  day  to  make  love  to  her  but  as  long  as 
she  remained  interested  in  his  verbal  jugglings  he  was 
content  with  that. 

When  she  was  alone  Doris  took  a  morbid  interest 
in  unravelling  ideas  and  attenuations  of  ideas.  Mor- 
bid, because  the  process  seemed  to  bring  a  melancholy 
to  her.  But  she  persisted.  There  was  an  elation. 
Thinking  was  like  a  game  in  which  one  surprised  one- 
self with  denouements. 

One  day  while  walking  she  reasoned  silently  about 
her  situation.  Her  love  for  Lindstrum  had  grown. 
At  times  it  fell  on  her  like  a  despair.  She  would  lie  in 
the  dark  of  her  room  repeating  to  herself  that  she 
would  go  mad  unless  he  came  back  to  her,  unless  he 
loved  her. 

Walking  swiftly  she  began  to  think  of  her  plans. 
Her  plans  centered  upon  bringing  him  back  to  her 
arms. 

"If  I'm  going  to  do  this  I  must  first  of  all  be  clear 
about  myself,"  she  thought.  ;Tve  become  interested 


GARGOYLES  165 

in  lots  of  things.  I  must  find  out  why  and  what's 
started  me." 

The  answer  that  came  to  her  was  one  of  the  de- 
nouements of  the  game.  It  repeated,  but  clearly,  that 
she  was  chiefly  concerned  with  bringing  Lief  back  to 
her  and  that  one  way  to  do  this  was  to  become  keener 
than  he,  become  brilliant  enough  to  deflate  him,  to 
confuse  him.  And  this  could  best  be  done  by  attack- 
ing his  subject  matter,  by  turning  his  conceptions  of 
life  and  people  upside  down  and  so  throwing  him  out 
of  gear. 

When  she  got  home  she  was  still  thinking. 

"What  I  must  do,  is  make  him  think.  He  doesn't 
think.  The  pictures  he  sees  pass  like  blurs  through 
his  eyes  and  come  out  like  blurs  under  his  pencil.  If 
I  can  make  him  think  he'll  have  to  open  his  eyes.  He'll 
have  to  defend  what  he  accepts  without  defenses  now 
— the  nobility  of  the  masses,  the  beauty  of  life.  And 
if  he  starts  thinking  and  doubting  he  won't  be  able  to 
write  because  he's  not  built  to  write  that  way.  He's 
built  to  write  out  of  passion." 

The  idea  became  cruelly  apparent  in  her  mind.  She 
must  destroy  Lindstrum  in  order  to  possess  him.  She 
must  beat  down  the  passionate  certitude  of  the  man, 
puncture  his  blind,  roaring  egomania,  take  away  from 
him  his  genius  and  then  he  would  turn  to  her. 

Her  thought  at  this  point  gave  itself  over  to  the 
passion  in  her.  Anger  filled  her  and  a  strange  vicious- 
ness  as  though  she  had  something  under  her  hands  to 
tear  to  pieces.  Her  clear-thinking  mind  was  a  weapon 
— a  thing  she  could  use  to  destroy  a  rival  with.  And  if 
it  destroyed  Lief  along  with  the  rival,  what  matter? 
Slowly  the  morbidity  of  her  position  grew.  Levme 


166  GARGOYLES 

was  an  ally.  His  talk  gave  her  ideas — directions  in 
which  to  think.  She  disliked  his  attitude.  The  man 
was  an  insincerity.  There  was  also  something  unctuous 
and  cowardly  about  him.  He  never  stood  up  for  his 
notions  in  the  face  of  conservatively  indignant  people. 
He  capitulated  and  even  denied  his  beliefs  or  lack  of 
beliefs.  Yet  in  the  nihilism  to  which  he  pretended  she 
found  a  background  for  her  own  thinking.  Nihilism 
to  Levine  was  a  conversational  pastime.  To  Doris  it 
became  a  despairing  hope  for  salvation.  She  poured 
over  books,  carefully  questioned  the  secrets  of  life, 
not  like  a  philosopher  seeking  answers  but  like  a 
Messalina  questing  for  poisons. 

Her  debates  with  Lindstrum  were  at  first  casual  and 
goodnatured.  A  humility  before  his  genius  made 
her  unable  to  assert  herself.  He  could  hurl  his  mystic 
word  sequences  at  her  and  their  beauty  made  her  in- 
capable of  appreciating  their  lack  of  psychologic 
content. 

But  her  determination  grew.  She  must  destroy — 
what?  The  somber  ecstasy  which  the  spectacle  .of 
people  awoke  in  him.  People  .  .  .  people  .  .  . 
the  word  contained  the  shape  and  soul  of  her  rival. 
People  .  .  .  workers,  toilers,  underdogs  ...  he  sang 
of  their  bruised  hearts  and  their  little  gropings. 
Songs  of  unfulfilled  dreams,  of  moods  like  ashen 
baskets  that  broke  under  the  weight  of  life.  Coal 
miners,  farmers,  stevedores,  vagrants,  desperadoes, 
drowsy  clerks  and  fumbling  factory  hands — the  dull 
faces  of  the  immemorial  crowd  sweating  for  its  living, 
grunting  under  its  burdens — his  phrases  hymned  their 
loneliness  and  their  defeats.  Beautiful  phrases  that 
seemed  almost  the  work  of  a  fantastic  word  weaver. 


GARGOYLES  167 

But  she  knew  better.  The  little  images,  the  patterns 
of  street  scenes,  the  aloof  fragments  of  idea — these 
might  be  to  some  only  decorations.  The  curve  of  a 
pick  going  through  the  air,  the  shake  of  a  great  trestle 
with  an  overland  train  thundering  across,  the  glint  of 
a  night  torch  under  the  eyes  of  a  section  gang — these 
might  be  only  abstractions  outlining  bits  of  rhythm 
and  color.  But  then  Lindstrum  would  not  have  been 
a  poet. 

There  was  beneath  them,  buoying  them  higher  and 
higher  like  some  mysterious,  invisible  force,  a  passion. 
It  escaped  now  and  then  from  between  the  lines  of  his 
work,  shaking  itself  like  a  fist,  holding  its  arms  out 
like  a  lost  woman.  Threats  crept  out  of  the  placid 
little  images  in  which  fragments  of  street  scenes 
postured  vividly  for  the  eye.  A  fury  loomed  suddenly 
behind  the  mumble  of  a  hurdy-gurdy  piece;  a  snarl 
offered  itself  as  invisible  punctuation  for  a  fol  de  rol 
of  city  life. 

It  was  a  passion  that  identified  itself  with,  and 
seemed  to  fatten  upon,  the  injustices  of  life.  It  sought 
to  champion  the  war  of  the  crowd  against  man  and 
nature. 

"The  humble  ones  .  .  .  the  humble  ones  .  .  .  " 
it  sang,  "they  are  God.  The  ones  life  walks  upon. 
The  working  ones,  the  cheated  ones — here  is  their 
song.  The  oppressed  ones,  listen  to  their  hearts 
beating." 

It  was  a  passion  out  of  which  a  great  propagandist 
might  have  been  born.  But  Lindstrum's  mind  was 
too  simple  to  utilize  it,  even  to  understand  it.  He 
was  aware  only  of  a  torment  that  seemed  to  twist  at 
his  heart  and  bring  words  like  soothing  whispers  into 


168  GARGOYLES 

his  thought.  A  craftsman  obsession  moulded  it  slight- 
ly. But  always  the  inarticulate  excitements  that  had 
started  him  writing  remained  fugitive  among  his  writ- 
ten words  saying  neither  "I  hate/'  nor  "I  love,"  but 
affirming  with  a  monotonous  crescendo,  "I  am.  I  am  I" 

Doris  caught  by  the  fanatic  lyricism  of  his  songs 
yielded  her  intellect  to  them  for  a  time.  The  shoe- 
maker Wotans  and  hobo  Christs  startled  her  into  an 
acquiesence.  But  she  was  determined.  She  knew  that 
her  praise  of  his  poetry  was  like  an  admiration  of  his 
infidelity.  Yes,  he  loved  people  as  he  might  have 
loved  her,  blindly  with  his  heart,  with  his  arms  around 
their  bodies  and  his  grey  eyes  looking  hungrily  through 
them. 

The  debates  grew  less  casual.  There  were  abrupt 
climaxes  during  which  he  stared  at  her  with  anger. 
Then  it  was  no  longer  a  debate  of  ideas  but  of  wills. 
Here  she  knew  herself  powerless  and  yielded  at  once, 
making  use  of  her  apology  to  caress  his  face  or  seize 
his  hand. 

Alone  again  she  would  study  the  things  she  had 
said  as  she  studied  from  day  to  day  the  social,  political 
and  spiritual  history  of  her  own  and  other  times.  Her 
mind  grew  to  master  the  phrases  which  outlined  the 
illusions  of  the  crowd,  which  revealed  the  lusts  and 
errors  of  the  crowd.  Her  thought  inspired  by  the 
single  desire  to  destroy  for  her  lover  the  beauty  of 
her  rival,  rallied  continually  from  its  defeats  before 
his  anger.  Her  cynicism  became  a  mystic  thing — her 
adoration  of  her  lover  turning  into  a  hatred  of  life, 
a  contempt  of  people. 

At  night  she  sat  in  the  window  of  her  room  over- 
looking the  thinly  crowded  street.  The  obsession  held 


GARGOYLES  169 

her  now,  occupying  her  energies  entirely.  In  its  excite- 
ment, in  the  mental  twistings,  she  found  rest  from  the 
desires  that  burned. 

Alone  .  .  .  she  was  alone.  She  would  play 
langorously  with  this  sense  of  loneliness.  She  would 
repeat  quietly,  "He'll  never  come  to  me  again.  Never 
hold  me  in  his  arms.  How  beautiful  he  is.  His  lips 
are  not  like  any  man's  lips  could  be.  But  he  doesn't 
love  me  any  more.  He  loves  this  in  the  street  below. 
Men  and  women  in  the  street.'5 

And  here  her  thinking  would  begin,  a  sequel  to  the 
preface  of  sorrow.  Below  her  moved  the  face  of  her 
rival — the  crowd.  She  must  study  the  thing  out  care- 
fully so  as  to  be  clear  in  her  words  when  she  talked 
to  him.  So  as  to  make  her  words  a  poison  in  him  that 
would  destroy  the  passion  for  her  rival. 

The  night  lifted  itself  far  away.  Little  lights  ran 
a  line  of  yellow  at  the  foot  of  buildings.  Men  and 
women.  What  were  men  and  women?  The  blur  of 
faces  in  the  street,  moving  along  every  night,  what 
was  that?  Something  to  idealize  and  give  one's  soul 
to?  No. 

Individuals  racing  toward  their  secret  destinations 
and  tumbling  with  a  sigh  into  an  inexhaustible  supply 
of  graves — that  was  a  phenomenon  to  be  studied 
separately.  Out  of  that  one  could  locate  plots,  dramas, 
humor,  tragedy.  But  here  below  the  window  was  an- 
other story — was  a  great  character  that  had  no  name 
but  that  her  lover  worshipped.  The  crowd  .  .  .  this 
thing  in  the  street  he  sang  of  as  the  crowd  was  a 
single  creature.  Its  face  was  one,  its  voice  one.  It 
had  one  soul — the  soul  of  man.  A  dark  thing,  alive 
with  inscrutable  desires. 


170  GARGOYLES 

"They're  not  people,"  she  whispered,  her  eyes 
staring  down,  ubut  traditions  walking  the  street. 
Accumulations  of  desires  and  impulses  taking  the 
night  air." 

She  watched  it  move  in  silence,  buried  beneath 
names  and  buildings. 

The  crowd  ...  It  was  blind  to  itself.  Its  many 
eyes  peered  bewilderedly  about.  Its  many  legs  moved 
in  a  thousand  directions.  And  yet  it  was  identical. 
Faces,  different  shaped  bodies,  different  colored  suits 
— these  were  part  of  a  mask.  Sentences  that  drifted 
in  the  night,  laughters,  sighs — these  were  part  of  a 
mask.  Under  the  clothes,  faces,  names,  talk  of  people, 
was  a  real  one — the  crowd.  It  had  no  brain. 

And  yet  this  creature  that  moved  in  the  street  below, 
in  all  streets  everywhere,  made  laws,  made  wars,  and 
mumbled  eternally  the  dark  secrets  of  its  soul.  The 
crowd  ...  a  monstrous  idiot  that  devoured  men, 
reason  and  beauty.  Now  it  moved  with  a  purr  through 
the  street.  It  was  going  somewhere,  making  love, 
making  plans,  diverting  itself  with  little  hopes.  Its 
passions  and  its  secrets  slept.  It  moved  like  a  great 
somnambulist  below  her  window,  with  a  fatuous 
complacency  in  its  dead  eyes.  Its  many  masks  disported 
themselves  in  the  night  air.  But  let  hunger  or  fear, 
let  one  of  the  inscrutable  impulses  awake  it,  and  see 
what  happened.  Ah!  Communes,  terrors,  rivers  of 
blood,  heads  on  spikes,  torture  and  savagery  1 

She  must  tell  this  all  clearly  to  him,  explain  lucidly 
to  him  how  the  hero-crowd  of  his  singing  was  a  grue- 
some and  stupid  criminal  blind  to  itself  and  afraid  of 
itself  and  inventing  laws  to  protect  it  from  itself. 
How  it  was  a  formless  thing  with  hungers  and  desires 


GARGOYLES  171 

moulded  in  the  beginning  of  Time.  How  it  demanded 
proofs  of  itself  that  the  darkness  of  its  brain  and  the 
savagery  of  its  heart  were  the  twin  Gods  from  whom 
all  wisdom  and  justice  flowed.  How  the  workers,  the 
defeated  ones,  the  under  dogs  he  sang  of  and  loved 
were  like  the  others — lesser  masks  envying  superior 
masks.  And  how  the  idealisms,  Gods  and  hopes  they 
all  worshipped  were  lies  the  beast  whispered  to  itself, 
fairy  tales  by  which  the  beast  consoled  itself.  Yes,  a 
monster  that  devoured  men  who  threatened  its  con- 
solations, a  wild  fanged  beast  purring  eternally  in  the 
path  of  progress.  Reason  was  a  little  cap  the  masks 
wore  that  every  wind  blew  off.  Her  loneliness  faded. 
Seated  by  her  window  Doris  no  longer  desired  the 
lips  of  her  lover.  There  was  another  elation  .  .  . 
a  knowledge  of  the  thing  in  the  street,  a  certainty  that 
she  could  make  Lief  Lindstrum  understand. 

One  evening  when  he  had  returned  to  her  after  an 
absence  of  a  month  she  decided  to  talk  calmly  to  him 
of  the  things  she  had  been  thinking.  He  came  in  with 
an  air  of  caution,  that  frightened  her  for  an  instant. 
She  studied  him  as  he  took  off  his  coat  and  hat  and 
sat  down.  It  was  autumn  outside.  Dark  winds  seemed 
to  have  followed  him  in.  This  was  an  old  trick  of 
his  that  had  once  thrilled  her.  He  seemed  always  to 
have  come  from  faraway  places,  to  have  risen  out  of 
depths  with  secrets  in  his  eyes.  Her  heart  yielded  as 
she  watched  him.  There  was  the  quality  about  him 
she  could  never  resist,  the  thing  her  senses  clamored 
for.  Not  that  he  wrote  poetry — but  that  he  was  a 
poet. 

It  was  almost  useless  to  argue  with  him,  to  destroy 
him.  No  matter  what  he  said  or  what  he  was  doing 


172  GARGOYLES 

she  could  see  him  always  as  he  really  was — a  silent 
figure  walking  blindly  over  men  and  buildings,  over 
days  and  nights;  walking  with  its  eyes  snarling  and 
its  mouth  tightened;  walking  over  days  and  nights 
after  a  phantom — a  silent  figure  walking  after  a 
phantom.  The  phantom  whispered,  "Come"  .  .  . 
and  the  silent  figure  nodded  its  head  and  followed. 
That  was  how  she  saw  him  when  her  heart  yielded,, 
when  she  desired  again  to  throw  herself  before  him, 
make  herself  the  phantom  he  was  following. 

But  the  obsession  in  her  changed  the  picture  slowly. 
Not  a  phantom  but  a  face  she  knew — the  face  of  the 
crowd.  A  wild  fanged  monster  that  had  cast  a  spell 
over  her  lover  and  he  went  walking  blindly  after  it 
calling  words  to  it,  singing  lullabys  to  it,  when  all 
these  things  should  have  been  for  her. 

Their  talk  began  as  she  wished  it.  He  was  ill  at 
ease.  Why  had  he  come?  He  was  afraid  to  stay 
away?  Why?  She  wondered  questions  as  he  sat 
uncertainly  in  the  chair  and  offered  vague  gossip  and 
information  to  explain  his  presence.  Then  she  said 
abruptly : 

"I'm  writing  a  story.  I've  decided  not  to  do  any 
more  poetry  but  write  a  story — a  book,  maybe." 

He  nodded. 

"What  about?"  he  asked. 

"People.  About  people,"  she  smiled.  She  noticed 
his  body  stiffen  and  his  eyes  grow  hard. 

"Yes,  about  people,"  he  repeated  slowly. 

He  was  cautious  when  he  came  to  see  her  now.  She 
had  reason  to  make  demands  of  him.  She  had  given 
herself  to  him  and  he  didn't  trust  her.  And  she  was 
always  trying  to  do  something  to  him.  He  knew  this. 


GARGOYLES  173 

It  was  hard  to  understand  her  lately  but  one  thing 
was  easy — she  was  not  to  be  trusted. 

"How  they  come  together  in  crowds,"  she  continued 
evenly,  "and  lose  themselves  in  a  common  identity. 
How  they  become  a  hideous,  unreasoning  savage — a 
single  savage.  I'm  going  to  write  a  book  making  this 
savage  the  .  .  .  the  hero." 

She  paused  to  look  at  him.  He  was  inattentive  but 
she  knew  better. 

"You  should  be  interested,"  she  smiled. 

"Why  should  I  be  interested?"  he  asked  slowly. 

"Because  you  write  about  people,  too." 

"Yes." 

"Or  think  you  do,"  she  went  on.  "I'm  going  to 
write  about  people  as  a  crowd — as  one  savage  with- 
out a  brain.  That's  the  crowd.  And  this  savage  is 
the  hero  of  my  story.  Without  a  brain  to  think  he 
creates  out  of  his  savagery  the  Gods,  laws  and  illusions 
under  which  you  and  I  live,  Lief.  Do  you  understand 
that?" 

He  looked  at  her  without  answer.  Her  heart  grew 
alive  with  strength.  She  knew  he  was  incapable  of 
any  answer  but  anger.  His  anger  could  usually  defeat 
her  but  this  time  she  felt  she  could  laugh  at  him  when 
he  began  to  scowl.  She  stood  up. 

"You,"  she  said  softly,  "are  like  they  are.  Like  the 
crowd.  You  do  not  think  or  reason.  You  only  feel. 
Words  are  accidents  to  you  .  .  .  crazy  hats  that 
rain  down  on  your  head.  You  write  out  of  a  hatred 
for  things  superior  to  the  beast.  You're  mad  at  life 
because  it  isn't  as  beautiful  as  you'd  like  it  to  be.  So 
when  you  get  maddest  you  begin  to  sing  lies  about  it." 

She  laughed  at  the  scowl  on  his  face. 


174  GARGOYLES 

"Yes,  I've  figured  it  out,  Lief.  You're  a  terrible 
liar.  When  you  say  you  love  people,  the  crowd,  you're 
a  terrible  liar  then.  You  don't  love  the  crowd  at  all. 
What  is  your  love  of  people  but  a  blind  infatuation 
with  yourself?  You  hate  them.  Whose  humanity  are 
you  all  the  time  writing  about  and  singing  about? 
Your  own.  But  you're  ashamed  to  admit  that.  Some- 
times people  are  ashamed  to  boast  of  themselves  so 
they  boast  of  something  else  they've  created  in  their 
own  image — of  their  Gods.  That's  the  way  you  boast 
of  your  crowd.  You're  ashamed  to  boast  of  yourself 
so  you  fix  it  up  for  yourself  by  giving  the  virtues  you 
think  you've  got  to  people  and  then  singing  about 
them  as  if  you  were  an  altruist  and  a  sympathetic 
human  observer.  You're  a  great  liar,  Lief.  And  the 
thing  you  love  is  a  lie  you  make  up.  Because  people 
are  foul.  And  you  know  it.  They're  not  like  you  or 
me.  They  can't  think  even  as  much  as  a  rat  thinks. 
They're  as  rattle-brained  as  chickens,  as  greedy  as 
vultures.  And  they  lie  all  the  time — good  God,  how 
they  lie.  You  hate  them  too.  You  know  all  this 
better  than  I  do.  But  you  keep  feeling  things  and 
you  imagine  they're  things  people  feel.  You  .  .  ." 

She  stopped  and  looked  at  him  with  a  smile.  She 
had  started  to  insult  him  and  had  ended  by  pleading 
with  him.  His  jaws  were  working  as  if  he  were  chew- 
ing. This  was  his  anger.  But  she  felt  no  defeat, 
nothing  but  a  slight  confusion.  She  was  disappointed  in 
herself  because  she  could  not  recapture  the  thoughts 
that  had  filled  her  during  the  month.  They  had  been 
clear  at  their  inception  but  now  they  were  mixed  up 
with  desires  for  Lief,  with  a  fear  of  him.  They  were 
mixed  up  so  that  out  of  what  she  was  saying  there 


GARGOYLES  175 

arose  no  clear  image  of  Lief  and  his  relation  to  life 
or  of  the  crowd  and  its  foulness. 

"Why  don't  you  answer  what  I  say?"  she  asked. 
"Are  you  afraid  to  discuss  things  you  are  absorbed 
in?  If  people  are  so  wonderful  lets  talk  about  them." 

She  felt  a  triumph.  She  had  destroyed  something. 
She  could  tell  by  his  eyes.  They  were  becoming  wild 
and  unfixed.  If  she  could  be  certain  of  destroying  it 
forever,  of  killing  in  him  the  love  for  her  rival  .  .  . 
then  .  .  . 

"The  little  finger  of  one  intelligent  man  is  worth 
the  whole  of  the  French  revolution,"  she  was  saying 
excitedly.  "You're  no  different  from  the  other  cowards 
who  devote  themselves  to  flattering  the  monster.  You 
know  what  I  mean.  The  monster  rewards  liars  and 
flatterers.  All  you  have  to  do  to  be  great  in  the  eyes 
of  the  world  is  to  celebrate  the  glories  of  the  monster. 
To  make  a  lickspittle  of  your  genius.  It's  an  old  and 
easy  formula.  Why  don't  you  think?  You  stand  up 
with  your  eyes  closed  and  sing  about  things  that 
never  existed — about  the  beauty  of  people  and  .  .  . 
and  .  .  ." 

Lindstrum  thrust  his  face  close  to  her.  She  paused. 
A  desire  to  laugh  came  as  she  stared  at  the  too 
familiar  features  of  the  man.  This  was  the  face  she 
had  held  in  her  hands  and  covered  with  kisses.  Nights 
of  passion  and  adoration  had  been  shared  with  this 
face.  Now  it  held  itself  savagely  before  her  and  grew 
blurred.  Something  had  been  destroyed  in  it.  It  was 
no  longer  familiar.  It  was  somebody  else's  face  .  .  . 

"People,"  it  said  as  if  it  were  going  to  spit  at 
her.  "Yes,  like  you  say.  Think  about  theml  God 
damn  .  ." 


176  GARGOYLES 

"Lief,"  she  murmured. 

"Don't  call  me  Lief  .  .  ."    He  glowered  closer. 

"Oh!  Then  you're  angry.  Well,  I  didn't  expect  you 
to  agree."  She  made  her  voice  tender  now.  She  did 
not  want  his  face  unfamiliar  like  this  as  if  she  had 
never  held  it  in  her  hands  and  covered  it  with  kisses. 

But  he  continued  to  thrust  himself  unfamiliarly 
before  her. 

"Yes,  I  agree  about  the  crowd,"  he  answered,  his 
eyes  swinging  over  her  head,  his  jaws  still  working. 
"I  agree.  You  got  'em  right.  Down  in  the  mud  of 
themselves.  And  me  with  them,  do  you  hear  that !  Me 
singing  with  'em.  Get  me,  now.  I'm  going  to  tell 
you." 

She  moved  away  from  this  unfamiliar  face  but  it 
came  closer  again. 

"I  don't  want  any  of  your  brains.  Not  for  mine. 
I  want  to  be  like  I  am.  This  beast  you  talk  about  .  .  . 
That's  me.  He  can't  talk  or  reason  .  .  .  All  right. 
He  won't  then.  But  he'll  do  something  else.  He'll 
live.  He'll  go  on  living.  Yes,"  he  raised  his  voice 
to  a  shout,  "I  agree  with  you.  Because  I'm  the 
crowd.  Do  you  get  that  .  .  .  you  dirty  .  .  .  you 
dirty  fool  .  .  .  you  .  .  ." 

The  oath  brought  his  passion  into  his  head.  His 
hand  clenched  and  his  fist  shot  into  her  face.  She 
staggered  away  from  him,  calling  his  name.  He 
watched  her  fall  against  a  couch.  A  rage  cried  in  him. 
He  was  a  liar,  was  he?  And  a  coward?  All  right.  He 
was.  Look  out  for  all  liars  and  cowards  then.  He 
walked  toward  the  couch  and  stood  above  her.  What 
did  she  want  of  him?  She  wanted  something.  Tears 
filled  him.  People  .  .  .  people  that  sweated  and  grunt- 


GARGOYLES  177 

ed  and  crawled  around  like  beasts  and  raised  their 
eyes  at  night  to  the  stars  .  .  .  This  monster  she  gabbed 
about,  this  thing  without  hands  or  eyes.  That  was  it 

She  was  crying  on  the  couch.  All  right.  Let  her, 
But  she  was  crying  because  she  wanted  something  .  .  . 
His  hands  grabbed  her  head  and  straightened  her 
face  until  their  eyes  were  looking  into  each  other. 

"Listen,"  he  said.  He  was  shaking  her.  'Tin  going 
away." 

Eyes  watched  each  other.  She  looked  until  the  face 
she  had  once  kissed  became  entirely  strange.  There 
was  no  Lief,  no  lover.  But  a  face  staring  murderously 
into  hers.  But  there  was  something  else.  Tears  behind 
the  stare.  Why  was  he  weeping?  The  question  like 
a  tiny  visitor  sat  down  in  her  mind. 

He  let  her  go  and  walked  from  the  room,  grabbing 
his  hat  and  coat  into  his  hands  as  he  went. 

Doris  listened.  Down  the  stairs.  Outside.  He  was 
gone.  She  went  to  the  window.  Her  eye  had  swelled 
and  her  cheek  pained.  She  sat  down  and  looked  into 
the  street. 

"He  hit  me,"  she  was  whispering  to  herself.  She 
began  to  weep  with  shame.  But  her  tears  seemed  to 
soften  her  heart  toward  him.  He  had  cried  too.  She 
arose  and  went  to  the  bed.  Here  she  had  lain  with 
him.  Warm,  familiar  hours.  Here  her  arms  had  held 
him.  She  threw  herself  down  and  wept  aloud. 


II. 


13. 

George  Basine  was  going  to  see  his  sister  Doris, 
In  the  nine  years  since  she  had  left  her  mother's  home 
she  had  become  a  strange  woman  to  Basine.  She  had 
always  been  strange  to  him.  But  now  it  was  as  if  she 
were  entirely  unhuman. 

He  could  talk  to  her  without  shame  of  things  that 
were  shameful.  But  there  was  something  more  tangi- 
ble in  her  presence  than  the  joy  of  being  able  to  confess 
things  to  her.  She  was  practical  in  her  ideas.  She 
gave  him  hunches  for  his  speeches  sometimes  and 
what  she  said  about  people  and  how  to  make  an 
impression  on  them  was  always  of  value.  She  under- 
stood such  things.  How,  he  couldn't  determine.  It 
was  probably  an  instinct  with  her. 

Basine  walked  along  in  the  spring  afternoon.  It 
was  Sunday  and  he  should  have  stayed  home.  Hen- 
rietta had  been  angry  when  he  left.  Sunday  was  his 
day  for  her  and  the  two  children.  There  were  two 
children  now — one  a  boy  of  seven,  and  a  girl  of  five. 

But  he  said,  "I  want  to  see  Doris.  She's  been  feeling 
rather  off  lately.  And  if  you  don't  believe  I'm  going 
there,  why  just  call  up  in  an  hour.  And  keep  on  calling 
every  hour  if  you  want  to  keep  check  on  me." 

He  was  always  angry  with  his  wife  when  he  left 
her.  She  made  him  feel  that  he  was  doing  wrong, 
although  she  seldom  said  anything.  But  to  go  away 
and  leave  her  on  Sunday  was  wrong.  But  not  for  the 
reasons  she  sometimes  hinted  at. 

He  knew  that  she  suspected  his  frequent  absences 

181 


182  GARGOYLES 

from  the  house.  He  accused  her  of  hounding  him  with 
her  jealousy,  and  the  knowledge  of  his  innocence — he 
had  never  been  unfaithful  during  the  eight  years  of 
their  marriage — made  him  angry.  The  elation  of 
righteous  anger  in  which  he  indulged  himself  on  all 
occasions  involving  Henrietta,  was  a  ruse  which 
obscured  for  both  himself  and  his  wife  the  actual 
reasons  of  his  absences.  She  bored  him  to  a  point  of 
fury.  His  children  and  their  endless  noises  and 
questionings  set  his  nerves  on  edge.  He  fled  in  order 
to  escape  his  home.  But  Henrietta  hinted  that  he  left 
her  for  someone  else.  And  he  denied  this  hotly.  And 
in  the  excitement  which  accusation  and  denial  aroused 
both  of  them  managed  to  avoid  facing  the  fact  that 
he  stayed  away  for  no  other  reason  than  to  escape  the 
boredom  of  her  presence  and  discomfort  of  his  home. 

Basine  was  careful  to  avoid  this  fact.  It  was  in- 
compatable  with  his  ideas.  He  had  become  a  man  of 
belligerent  righteousness.  He  was  slowly  emerging  as 
a  public  figure.  As  an  assistant  in  the  state's  attorney's 
office  his  political  activities  were  attracting  more  at- 
tention than  his  legal  work.  He  was  in  demand  as  a 
campaign  orator.  And  the  candidates  in  whose  behalf 
he  addressed  the  public  were  men,  he  pointed  out  with 
an  air  of  fearlessness,  who  believed  first  of  all  that 
the  home  was  the  cornerstone  of  civilization. 

"He  is  a  man  worth  while,"  he  would  declaim,  "a 
capable  administrator.  But  first  of  all  our  candidate 
is  like  you  and  me.  His  heart  is  centered  in  his  home. 
The  greatest  rewards  life  holds  for  him  are  not  the 
offices  we  are  able  to  bestow  on  him  but  the  love  of 
his  wife  and  children." 

Since  his  marriage  which  from  the  first  had  irritated 


GARGOYLES  183 

him  and  then  set  his  teeth  on  edge,  he  had  devoted 
himself  seemingly  to  a  public  idealization  of  his  own 
predicament. 

Nine  years  had  brought  changes  in  Basine.  He  had 
grown  leaner.  His  face  had  sharpened  into  hawk 
lines.  There  was  about  him  at  thirty-four,  an  aristo- 
cratic pugnaciousness.  Fearlessness  was  a  word  which 
was  gradually  attaching  itself  to  his  name.  He  was 
fearless,  people  said.  His  lean  body  and  unphysical 
air  contributed  to  their  decision. 

When  he  appeared  publicly  people  saw  a  wiry- 
bodied  man  past  thirty  with  an  amazing  determination 
about  him.  His  words  snapped  out,  his  eyes  flashed 
as  he  talked.  And  his  talk  was  usually  alive  with 
denunciations.  He  denounced  enemies  of  the  people 
and  ideas  that  were  enemies. 

During  the  minor  campaigns  for  aldermen,  state's 
attorney  and  the  judiciary  elections  in  which  he  had 
been  employed  by  his  party  leaders,  he  had  created 
a  slight  newspaper  stir.  The  public  had  quickly  sensed 
in  him  an  interesting  character. 

And  then,  although  he  was  years  working  toward 
this  end,  he  had  suddenly  leaped  forward  as  a  cham- 
pion of  their  rights.  He  had  become  one  of  the  select 
group  of  indomitable  Davids  striding  fearlessly  forth 
to  do  battle  with  the  Goliaths  that  threatened.  And 
there  were  always  Goliaths  threatening.  Insidious 
Goliaths;  shrewd,  merciless  Goliaths  continually  on 
the  verge  of  opening  their  terrible  maws  and  devour- 
ing the  rights  of  the  public. 

Basine  was  coming  forward  as  a  champion,  con- 
secrated to  the  slaying  of  Goliaths.  Not  only  during 
campaigns,  which,  of  course,  was  the  open  season  for 


184  GARGOYLES 

Goliath-slaying,  but  between  campaigns,  behind  closed 
doors  where  nobody  saw,  in  the  bosom  of  his  family. 
He  never  removed  his  armor  or  rather,  never  laid 
aside  his  holy  slingshot.  He  was  always  locked  in 
a  death  struggle  with  new  and  unsuspected  Goliaths 
— this  wiry,  fearless  man  who  was  beginning  to  cry 
out  in  the  newspapers  .  .  .  "The  enemies  of  the 
public  must  be  overthrown.  It  matters  not  who  they 
are  or  in  what  camp  they  are.  The  city  must  be  cleaned 
up." 

Following  the  failure  of  several  private  banks  in 
the  cosmopolitan  district  of  the  city,  Basine  had  leaped 
forward  against  this  new  Goliath.  This  had  been  his 
first  major  offensive. 

Private  banks  were  threatening  the  peace  of  the 
public.  He  had  made  several  speeches  before  business 
men's  associations  denouncing  private  banks  and 
private  bankers.  He  had  declared  with  utter  disre- 
gard of  personal  or  political  consequences  that  they 
were  a  menace — that  they  were  sharks  swimming  in 
the  waters  of  finance — and  that  he  would  not  rest 
until  the  public  had  been  made  safe  against  their 
predatory,  merciless  jaws. 

He  was  on  this  Sunday  morning  in  the  midst  of  the 
fight  against  private  banks.  The  excitement  had  started 
with  the  failure  of  a  small  banking  institution  on  the 
west  side.  The  newspapers  had  carried  the  usual 
stories  of  weeping  depositors  and  heartbroken  work- 
ing people  whose  life-time  savings  had  been  swept 
away  in  the  crash.  Basine  had  overlooked  the  stories 
in  the  papers.  Doris  had  called  them  to  his  attention. 
He  had  been  sitting  in  her  studio  .  .  .  Here  was 
something  worth  while.  Why  didn't  he  start  a  cam- 


GARGOYLES  185 

paign  against  private  banks.  There  was  always  agita- 
tion, but  as  yet  not  a  big  campaign. 

When  he  left  her  the  thing  had  already  matured  in 
his  mind.  He  wondered  why  she  had  laughed  during 
the  discussion  of  the  possibilities  of  such  a  campaign. 
He  remembered  her  saying  with  a  sneer,  "That's  the 
sort  of  thing  the  crowd  eats  up.  The  trouble  with 
you  George,  is  that  you  haven't  learned  the  trick  of 
frightening  the  mob.  You  can't  be  a  leader  unless  you 
frighten  them  first  and  then  leap  out  to  defend  them. 
The  menace  of  private  banks  is  something  to  frighten 
them  with.  Start  a  crusade." 

That  was  it — a  crusade.  Movements  and  reforms 
were  all  very  well.  But  they  were  slow  work.  In 
order  to  advance  one  had  to  attach  oneself  to  tidal 
waves.  Doris  was  right  about  frightening  them. 

Within  a  week  he  had  launched  his  attack.  He  had 
developed  a  technique  in  his  public  utterances  which 
was  becoming  more  and  more  unconscious  and  so  more 
and  more  convincing.  Once  determined  that  a  crusade 
against  private  banks  would  be  a  step  in  his  upward 
climb,  his  cynicism  in  the  matter  vanished.  He  in- 
vestigated the  subject  thoroughly,  filling  his  mind  with 
statistics.  Events  played  into  his  hands.  A  second 
private  bank  collapsed  at  the  end  of  the  week  and 
Basine  knew  that  the  ground  was  ready  for  his  crusade. 

He  began  not  with  an  attack  against  the  institution 
of  private  banks,  but  shelving  the  statistics  he  had 
carefully  mastered,  he  concentrated  upon  creating  a 
sense  of  terror  in  the  public  mind.  In  statements  given 
out  to  the  press  and  in  speeches  before  business  men's 
associations  which  were  also  reported  in  the  news- 
papers, he  pounded  on  the  note  of  menace.  They  were 


186  GARGOYLES 

a  menace.  They  were  something  to  be  afraid  of.  They 
jeapordized  stability.  They  were  wildcat  institutions. 

It  was  his  first  crusade  and  he  waited  nervously  for 
the  response.  The  response  came  after  a  pause  of  a 
week  like  an  answering  shout.  Down  with  private 
banks!  A  conflagration  of  headlines  flared  up.  The 
people  were  against  private  banks.  Editorials  heralded 
the  fact.  The  newspapers  were  against  private  banks. 
A  week  ago  private  banks  had  been  the  furthest  topic 
from  the  public  conversation.  Now  it  became  a  matter 
of  violent  discussion.  Citizens  committees  were  being 
formed  for  the  purpose  of  fighting  private  banks. 

Feeling  began  to  run  high.  Very  high.  A  neighbor- 
hood Polish  financier  who  for  years  had  conducted  a 
small  banking  institution  was  mobbed  on  his  way  to 
work  and  rescued  from  the  violence  of  the  crowd, 
which  threatened  his  life  by  the  arrival  of  police.  This 
incident  was  reported  by  the  newspapers  as  revealing 
the  determination  of  the  men  seeking  to  wipe  out  the 
menace  of  the  private  bank  and  also  as  revealing  the 
unscrupulous  power  of  the  men  engaged  in  the  private 
banking  business. 

The  growing  clamor  against  the  institution  resulted 
naturally  in  the  collapse  of  two  more  small  banks 
whose  depositors,  terrified  by  reports  they  themselves 
were  circulating,  rushed  to  withdraw  their  savings. 

Basine  contemplating  the  extent  of  the  public  indig- 
nation felt  a  pride  and  a  misgiving.  He  glowed  with 
the  thought  that  he,  Basine,  had  started  the  thing. 
His  name  had  from  the  beginning  figured  prominently 
in  connection  with  the  growing  crusade  .  .  .  uBasine 
Denounces  Private  Banks  .  .  ."  had  started  it.  And 
then  a  flood  of  headlines,  "Banking  Sharks  Prey  on 


GARGOYLES  187 

poor,  says  Basine."  .  .  .  And  then  "Basine  Flays  Pri- 
vate Bankers  at  Mass  Meeting  ..."  "Private  Bank 
Menace  Growing  .  .  ." 

He  had  kept  his  head  during  the  publicity  and,  un- 
accountably, his  thought  had  turned  to  his  sister  as 
the  crusade  gathered  momentum,  as  the  "menace 
grew."  Although  alive  with  a  powerful  indignation 
against  the  enemy,  Basine  remained  mentally  aloof  in 
contemplating  the  situation.  His  aloofness  was  not  a 
cynicism  but  a  guide. 

He  studied  the  fact  that  the  clamor  was  in  the  main 
artificial.  The  menace  of  the  private  bank  was  a 
thing  that  touched  less  than  one  per-cent  of  the  popu- 
lation. There  were  no  more  than  thirty  such  minor 
institutions  in  the  city  and  more  than  two-thirds  of 
these  were  as  sound  as  the  banks  under  government 
supervision.  His  statistics  had  revealed  this. 

Nevertheless  in  some  mysterious  way  the  phrase 
"private  bank"  had  become  synonymous  with  ogre, 
villainy,  menace,  calamity.  His  original  denunciations 
published  rather  casually  by  the  press  had  been  a 
species  of  newspaper  feelers.  The  public  had  respond- 
ed. Realizing  then  that  the  subject  was  a  live  one, 
the  papers  had  cut  loose.  The  idea  of  a  trusted  public 
institution  being  a  danger  and  a  menace  to  the  com- 
munity was  quick  in  awaking  a  sense  of  alarm.  A 
sense  of  fear  inspired  by  no  facts  but  by  the  reiterative 
rhetoric  of  the  press  swept  the  city. 

Basine  for  several  days  sought  futilely  to  understand 
the  phenomenon  of  this  fear.  It  seemed  almost  as  if 
people  were  filled  with  constant  though  innate  fear  of 
the  things  they  trusted.  A  man  named  Levine  whom 
he  had  met  at  Doris'  explained  it  that  way.  He  had 


188  GARGOYLES 

listened  to  the  man  talk:  .  .  .  "The  reason  people 
turn  on  their  trusted  institutions  with  such  fury  is 
simple.  When  a  platitude  they  have  blindly  upheld 
seems  about  to  betray  them  they  fall  on  it  and  tear  it 
to  pieces.  This  is  because  a  platitude  is  kept  alive 
blindly  and  it  must  be  destroyed  blindly.  When  a 
platitude  commits  the  offense  of  becoming  obviously, 
too  obviously,  a  lie  or  an  incipient  danger,  people  are 
of  course  overcome  with  the  horrible  doubt  that  all 
platitudes  are  lies  and  dangers.  This  general  suspicion 
which  overcomes  them,  this  wholesale  fear  or  panic 
which  sweeps  over  them,  they  let  out,  of  course,  on 
the  one  platitude.  By  viciously  denouncing  the  one 
platitude  they  manage  to  assure  themselves  that  all 
the  others  are  all  right.  They  sort  of  lose  their  general 
terror  in  an  unnatural  but  specific  hysteria.  And  they 
always  turn  themselves  into  an  overfed  elephant  jump- 
ing furiously  up  and  down  and  trumpeting  terribly — • 


at  a  mouse." 


Basine  carried  this  explanation  away.  He  allowed 
it  to  linger  in  his  mind  without  thinking  of  it.  He 
knew  that  the  fear  was  unwarranted  and  yet  the 
excitement  had  taken  on  the  proportions  of  a  public 
uprising.  The  editorials  of  the  press  became  couched 
more  and  more  in  grandiloquent  languages,  reminis- 
cent of  Biblical  passages.  In  fact  a  religious  fervor 
had  entered  the  clamor.  The  overthrow  of  the  private 
bank  was  a  mission  of  righteousness — an  integral 
part  of  the  higher  Christianity  of  the  nation — to  say 
nothing  of  the  dreams  of  its  forefathers. 

With  this  growing  and  exalted  anger,  a  new  phen- 
omenon struck  Basine.  It  was  the  strange  myth  that 
had  sprung  up  seemingly  over-night  of  the  power  of 


GARGOYLES  189 

the  private  banks.  He  knew  from  his  study  of  the 
facts  that  the  private  bankers  of  the  city  were  a  hand- 
ful of  haphazard,  third  rate  financiers  without  prestige 
in  the  courts  or  pull  in  the  politics  of  the  state.  Their 
total  holdings  represented  a  slight  fraction  of  the 
money  tied  up  in  the  banking  business  of  the  city. 
They  had  no  standing  comparable  with  the  standing 
of  the  supervised  banks.  The  big  interests  including 
the  men  of  power  in  the  city  were  against  them  and 
they  were,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  a  puny  by-product  of 
the  city's  intricate  finance. 

Yet  now  they  had  become  an  insidiously  entrenched 
monster.  Public  men  of  affairs  vied  with  each  other 
in  revealing  the  mysterious  power  of  the  private  bank. 
And  Basine  was  left  to  marvel  in  silence  over  the 
fact  that  the  wilder  the  public  frenzy  against  private 
bankers  became,  the  huger  and  more  difficult  to  over- 
throw were  the  private  bankers  made  out  to  be. 

His  pride  as  author  of  the  crusade  began  however 
to  be  colored  with  misgivings.  Others  had  risen  to 
challenge  him  for  the  leadership  of  the  movement. 
Stern,  fearless  men,  as  stern  and  fearless  as  himself, 
were  offering  to  sacrifice  themselves  on  the  altars  of 
freedom.  The  altars  of  freedom,  the  press  explained, 
were  the  battleground  of  the  fight  against  private 
banks. 

The  public's  attention  was  being  distracted  from 
Basine.  Men  of  greater  prestige  than  he  had  hurled 
themselves  into  the  death  struggle.  These  great  ones 
were  more  qualified  than  Basine  for  leadership.  They 
were  older  and  of  deeper  experience  in  the  slaying  of 
Goliaths.  Now  it  seemed  that  perhaps  one  of  them 
and  not  George  Basine  was  the  hero  who  would  be 


190  GARGOYLES 

able  to  overthrow  this  latest  menace  to  the  public 
weal. 

Basine's  misgivings  took  the  form  of  an  irritation. 
He  sensed  the  fickleness  of  the  public  and  understood 
that  it  could  turn  from  him  who  had  started  the  whole 
thing  and  give  its  adulation  to  some  other  leader  who 
had  jumped  on  the  band-wagon  and  crowded  Basine 
off  the  driver's  seat.  His  cynicism  returned  as  he  read 
the  denunciations  his  rivals  were  hurling  at  private 
banks. 

"A  pack  of  fools  and  fourflushers,"  he  muttered  to 
himself  and  their  words — paraphrases  of  his  original 
denunciations  for  the  most  part — nauseated  him. 
The  word  "bunk"  crept  into  his  thought  as  he  read 
their  speeches  and  interviews.  He  would  like  to  stop 
the  whole  thing,  to  stand  up  and  say  it  was  all  a 
tempest  in  a  teapot  and  that  there  was  no  menace  or 
ogre  or  Goliath;  that  the  whole  thing  was  made  out 
of  whole  cloth.  Then  the  entire  business  would  col- 
lapse and  the  men  threatening  him  for  the  leadership 
would  be  left  high  and  dry. 

.  .  .  Doris  looked  up  as  he  entered.  She  was  a 
silent-looking  woman.  Her  face  wore  its  pallor  like 
a  mask.  She  greeted  her  brother  without  expression. 
Her  luxurious  body  seemed  without  life,  her  hands 
gesturing  as  if  they  were  weighted.  The  sensuous  out- 
lines of  her  which  brought  to  mind  the  odalisques  of 
Titian  found  a  startling  contrast  in  the  immobility  of 
her  manners.  She  was  thirty  and  in  the  half-lighted 
room  she  seemed  like  a  beautiful,  burning-eyed  para- 
lytic. 

"Tired?"  her  brother  asked  as  he  sat  down. 

This  was  of  late  his  usual  greeting.      She  looked 


GARGOYLES  191 

tired  always,  and  until  she  began  to  talk,  she  looked 
as  if  she  were  dumb  or  blind.  But  when  she  talked  her 
eyes  lighted. 

She  shook  her  head  to  his  question.  He  had  come 
filled  with  troubles  and  confessions  but  her  black  eyes, 
centered  on  him,  disturbed  him.  He  had  become  used 
to  the  sardonic  weariness  of  her  face.  But  there  were 
times  when  he  felt  as  if  something  were  happening  to 
her  that  he  couldn't  understand.  Her  eyes  would  burn 
and  seem  to  shut  him  out  as  if  she  could  look  at  him 
without  seeing  him. 

Her  complete  inanimation  startled  him.  He  knew 
he  could  sit  talking  all  night  and  she  would  never 
move  nor  ask  a  question.  Long  ago  she  had  been  a 
little  like  that.  Never  asking  questions  but  sitting 
among  others  as  if  she  were  alone.  But  now  it  was 
more  marked.  There  was  something  wrong  with 
Doris.  What  she  needed  was  to  go  out  more.  She 
was  getting  too  self-centered,  brooding  too  much. 

Basine,  as  he  sat  studying  the  window  and  the  pro- 
file of  his  sister,  kept  remembering  how  she  used  to 
be.  That  was  years  ago  when  they  had  all  lived  at 
home.  And  this  poet  Lindstrum  whom  everybody  was 
talking  about,  used  to  call  on  her.  She  had  been  in 
love  with  him.  But  that  was  long  ago — eight,  nine, 
ten  years  ago.  It  couldn't  be  that.  And  it  couldn't 
be  that  she  was  "in  trouble,"  because  she  had  been  like 
this  for  years  now.  He  remembered  her  youth.  Her 
silence  then  had  been  different.  It  had  been  alive. 
And  now  she  sat  around  like  a  corpse  and  if  it  wasn't 
for  her  eyes  moving  occasionally  you  might  think  her 
actually  dead.  Sometimes  this  thought  did  frighten 
him  as  he  sat  watching  her.  She  was  dead!  He  would 


192  GARGOYLES 

restrain  himself  from  jumping  up  to  see  and  sit  listen- 
ing to  hear  her  breathe. 

He  felt  sorry  for  her.  When  he  had  married 
Henrietta  she  had  been  the  only  one  who  had  under- 
stood. He  could  always  remember  what  she  had  said 
at  the  wedding.  It  was  the  only  thing  he  could  recall 
of  the  event — what  Doris  had  said  to  him  .  .  . 

"You'll  never  be  a  great  man  if  you  let  yourself  get 
trapped  like  this  too  often." 

Surprising  that  she  should  know  enough  to  say  that. 
Because  anyone  who  could  say  that  to  him  must  know 
him  thoroughly  and  understand  him  thoroughly.  It 
was  what  he  had  been  saying  to  himself  for  months 
before  the  wedding. 

He  felt  sorry  for  his  sister.  They  were  good  friends 
in  a  way.  A  curious  way  because  he  felt  she  detested 
him  somehow.  Yet  she  understood  him  and  could 
help  him.  And  she  liked  him  to  come  to  see  her.  He 
wondered  why.  She  had  no  love  for  him  but  there 
was  something  about  him  that  appealed  to  her  and 
interested  her.  He  had  noticed  how  she  acted  toward 
others.  Their  talk  left  her  dead.  Even  when  Levine 
talked  she  often  remained  unaware  he  was  around. 
Her  eyes  never  opened  to  people.  Even  her  mother. 
And  Fanny  had  said,  "Doris  is  getting  more  and  more 
of  a  pill.  I  think  she's  going  crazy.  She  doesn't  even 
look  at  a  person  anymore." 

He  watched  her  and  thought,  "Poor  girl.  Some- 
thing wrong.  I  wish  I  could  help  her." 

He  kept  remembering  how  beautiful  and  alive  she 
had  been  and  his  heart  felt  an  odd  laceration  as  if 
something  he  loved  were  dying.  Was  he  so  fond  of 
Doris,  then?  He  said,  "no."  Yet  he  could  never 


GARGOYLES  193 

remember  having  felt  such  sympathy  as  this  toward 
anyone.  It  was  because  she  was  an  intimate.  He  felt 
toward  her  as  he  felt  toward  himself — forgiving, 
appreciative,  and  a  sense  of  pity.  Why  had  he  thought 
that?  Pity.  Did  he  pity  himself,  he,  George  Basine, 
who  was  just  beginning  to  ascend?  Henrietta  and  the 
kids — that  was  it.  A  man  had  to  accumulate  troubles 
if  he  was  to  amount  to  anything. 

The  feeling  of  sympathy  slipped  from  his  thought. 
Doris  had  turned  her  eyes  to  him.  Basine  was  aware 
of  her  coming  to  life.  The  symmetrical  mask  of  her 
face  became  features  and  expressions. 

"Will  you  stay  for  tea?"  she  asked. 

He  would.  Doris  stood  up  and  regarded  him  with 
a  malicious  smile. 

"The  crusade  seems  to  be  running  away  from  you," 
she  said. 

He  nodded.  The  public-spirited  leader  in  him  did 
not  relish  the  ironic  tilt  of  her  words.  But  he  was 
able  to  assume  a  dual  attitude  toward  her  cynical  in- 
tellectualism.  He  could  frown  on  it  with  a  sense  of 
outrage.  And  he  could  listen  to  it  with  an  appreciative 
shrewdness.  He  could  despise  her  iconoclasm  and  still 
utilize  its  intelligence  to  aid  him  in  his  climb. 

He  had  always  understood  that  to  his  sister  his 
aspirations  were  contemptible.  And  yet  despite  her 
sneering  she  seemed  anxious  to  help  him  realize  them. 
He  understood,  too,  that  in  his  sister's  mind  there 
was  something  queer  about  people.  When  she  talked 
about  people  her  eyes  lighted.  There  was  about  her 
talk  of  people  a  clarity  of  idea  that  contrasted 
strangely  with  the  passion  one  could  feel  behind  her 
words. 


194  GARGOYLES 

Basine  usually  tried  to  dismiss  the  impression  she 
made  on  him  by  thinking,  "Oh,  she's  a  fanatic  on  the 
subject,  that's  all."  But  a  mystery  worried  him.  Why 
should  she  be  interested  in  his  career?  And  why  should 
she  try  to  help  him  if  she  despised  him  and  his  type 
of  ambition?  And,  moreover,  despised  people  and 
politics  in  general? 

It  was  a  paradox  and  it  made  him  uncomfortable. 
But  he  sought  her  out  all  the  more  for  this.  Because 
there  was  something  practical  about  her  fanaticism. 
Yes,  and  because  she  understood  about  him. 

HQ  had  already  told  her  secrets  about  himself, 
particularly  about  himself  in  relation  to  Henrietta. 
That  formed  a  bond  between  them.  He  sometimes 
grew  frightened  at  the  thought  of  the  things  Doris 
knew  about  him — things  she  might  tell  to  anyone  and 
ruin  him;  wreck  his  home  and  his  career.  But  always 
after  worrying  about  such  fears  he  would  hurry  to  his 
sister  and  unburden  himself  still  further.  As  if  by 
feeding  her  further  secrets  he  could  make  certain  of 
her  loyalty  and  reticence. 

He  watched  her  less  openly  as  she  poured  tea.  A 
bitterness  filled  him.  If  Henrietta  were  only  a  woman 
like  this  instead  of  a  stick.  If  only  he  could  sit  home 
and  talk  things  over  with  her,  marriage  would  have 
some  sense  to  it.  He  frowned.  He  did  not  like  to 
think  this  way. 

Doris  began  to  talk  smoothly,  her  dark  eyes  grow- 
ing more  alive.  He  listened  nervously,  wincing  under 
the  contempt  of  her  phrases  and  fascinated  by  the 
startling  interpretations  they  offered  him  of  his  own 
thoughts. 

"If  I  were  you,"  she  said  as  she  arranged  the  tea- 


GARGOYLES  195 

cups,  "I  would  let  myself  be  squeezed  out  of  the 
crusade.  It's  served  its  purpose  for  you.  You've 
frightened  about  a  million'  feeble-minded  creatures 
into  a  fury  against  private  banks.  You've  done  quite 
well.  That's  the  secret,  you  know.  And  you  must 
always  remember  it.  Create  bogeymen  to  frighten 
people  with.  The  more  unreal  the  bogeymen,  the 
more  terrified  the  public.  If  you  don't  believe  this 
figure  out  for  yourself — of  what  are  people  the  most 
afraid?  God,  of  course.  The  greatest  of  the  bogey- 
men. And  remember  too,  George  that  people  like  to 
be  terrified.  There's  a  reason  for  that.  People  like 
to  be  preoccupied  by  false  terrors  in  order  not  to  have 
to  face  real  frightening  facts — facts  such  as  death  and 
age  and  their  own  souls." 

She  sat  down  and  looked  at  Basine  with  a  pitying 
smile. 

aWhat  a  fool  you  are,  George.  You  don't  believe 
a  word  I  say,  do  you?" 

"What  you  say  and  how  you  say  it  are  two  different 
things,"  he  answered.  The  thought  was  in  his  mind 
that  Fanny  was  right.  Doris  was  going  crazy.  Her 
talk  had  an  edge  to  it  as  if  her  voice  were  being  care- 
fully repressed.  He  almost  preferred  her  when  she 
was  silent,  when  her  eyes  slept.  Because  now  there 
was  a  hidden  wildness  to  her.  She  was  suffering !  The 
thought  startled  him.  But  that  was  it.  The  hate  that 
filled  her  voice  came  from  a  suffering  inside.  He 
wanted  to  reach  over  and  take  her  hand  and  whisper 
to  her  to  be  calm,  but  he  continued  to  listen  without 
moving.  There  were  things  in  what  she  said  that 
always  held  him.  It  was  like  learning  secrets.  She 
was  still  talking.  / 


196  GARGOYLES 

"Well,  today  they're  shrieking  and  vomiting  in- 
vective and  you'd  like  nothing  better  than  to  be  the 
heroic  leader  of  this  pack  of  filthy  cowards.  Would 
you?  Well,  it's  not  worth  while  this  time.  The  whole 
thing'll  blow  over.  In  a  few  weeks  people  will  have 
forgotten  about  private  banks.  And  by  the  time  you 
get  the  bill  into  the  state  legislature  the  papers  will 
be  ignoring  the  whole  business.  Do  you  see?  There's 
nothing  so  tragic  as  the  spectacle  of  a  mob  leader 
stranded  high  and  dry  with  a  yesterday's  crusade.  And 
his  mob  off  in  another  direction.  Remember,  George, 
you're  not  dealing  with  people,  with  reasoning  men 
and  women.  You  always  forget  this  and  you'll  never 
get  ahead  if  you  keep  forgetting  it.  You're  dealing 
with  a  single  creature — the  crowd.  A  huge  bellowing 
savage." 

"I  know,  I  know,n  Basine  muttered.  She  was  crazy. 
Something  queer  in  her  head  about  people.  "All 
people  aren't  like  that,  of  course.  But  I  understand." 

"You  don't,"  she  interrupted  angrily.  "All  people 
are  like  that.  Alone  people  are  one  thing.  They're 
alive  and  they  reason  a  little.  But  when  they  come  to- 
gether to  overthrow  governments  or  defend  govern- 
ments or  make  laws  or  worship  Gods,  they  vanish. 
A  single  creature  takes  their  place.  And  this  single 
creature  is  a  mysterious  savage  who  howls  and  spits 
and  vomits  and  tears  its  hair  and  has  orgasms  of 
terror  and  befouls  itself." 

Her  eyes  glared  at  Basine.  With  an  effort  she  con- 
trolled her  voice.  She  continued  in  a  passionate 
whisper, 

"Don't  you  understand  that  yet?  After  all  IVe 
shown  you.  If  you  want  to  get  ahead,  I  can  make  you 


GARGOYLES  197 

anything.  Do  you  hear  that?  Anything  ...  I  can 
make  you  a  leader  ...  a  king.  All  you  must  learn 
is  the  way  of  turning  people  into  swine  .  .  . " 

"Please  Doris,  you  get  too  excited.  Please  ..." 
"Into  swine  and  swine  crusades.  We'll  find  ways 
of  bringing  them  together  and  the  more  swinish  you 
can  make  people  become,  yes,  the  more  you  can  make 
them  spew  and  shriek,  the  holier  will  become  the 
cause  of  this  spewing  and  shrieking.  These  are 
elementals  and  you  must  trust  me.  Do  you  hear?" 

Her  fingers  were  cold.  They  had  closed  on  his 
hand.  He  shuddered.  Crazy  .  .  .  poor  Doris. 
Gone  queer  with  something.  Yet  he  found  himself 
listening,  her  chill  fingers  startling  his  flesh.  Out  of 
her  ravings  there  might  issue  at  any  minute  the  thing 
he  was  always  looking  for  ...  a  way  to  get  ahead. 

"Little  crusades  like  this,"  she  went  on,  "are  all 
right.  But  private  banks  are  only  a  detail.  And  be- 
sides the  idea  is  too  concrete  to  terrify  people  and 
bring  out  the  full  hysteria  of  their  cowardice.  What 
we  need  is  something  vague — that  has  no  facts  to 
handicap  it.  Something  you  can  lie  about  wildly  and 
frighten  them  with  so  that  their  bowels  weaken. 
Please,  drop  the  thing  now.  You  must  ..." 

"Doris,  you  get  too  excited.  Let's  talk  sense  in- 
stead of  getting  excited  like  this." 

He  patted  her  hand  and  returned  her  stare  uncom- 
fortably. He  wanted  to  ask  her  why  she  was  inter- 
ested in  his  getting  ahead,  in  making  him  a  leader. 
She  had  paused.  Basine  felt  himself  nauseated  by  the 
intensity  of  her  words  that  continued  to  ring  in  his 
ears.  Her  anger  and  the  viciousness  of  her  phrases 


198  GARGOYLES 

brought  her  too  close  to  him.  He  could  almost  see 
something  behind  the  glare  of  her  dark  eyes. 

"Oh,  you're  not  interested  in  progress  and  civil- 
ization," she  resumed  mockingly.  Her  words  seemed 
more  controlled.  He  noticed  that  she  jerked  her  hand 
away.  "Because  if  you  were  you  would  see  that 
progress  and  civilization  are  the  results  of  the  terror 
of  the  mob.  It's  when  they  get  frightened  of  some- 
thing and  throw  themselves  at  it  with  their  eyes  shut 
and  their  hair  on  end,  that  institutions  are  born  .  .  . 
that  new  platitudes  are  set  up  in  heaven.  And  the 
secret  is  this — the  worse  swine  you  can  turn  them 
into,  the  holier  will  be  the  things  they  do.  Listen,  I'll 
tell  you  .  .  .  You  must  do  as  I  say  .  .  .  You  must 
believe  me  .  .  ." 

She  had  risen.  Her  hand  was  on  his  shoulder  and 
her  eyes  burned  over  him.  He  felt  a  bit  fearful  and 
impatient.  To  a  point,  her  talk  was  interesting.  But 
after  that  it  became  like  raving. 

"You've  told  me  that  before,"  he  murmured. 
"Please  calm  down."  An  ecstatic  light  slowly  left  her. 

"Oh  yes.  Sense,"  she  whispered.  "Well,  the  sense 
of  it  is  for  you  to  become  a  symbol  of  their  holiness. 
Be  a  leader.  Isn't  that  it.  But  the  private  bank  crusade 
has  fizzled.  I've  read  the  papers  closely  and  outside 
of  the  two  attacks  on  the  private  bankers  last  week, 
there've  been  no  great  gestures  of  righteousness.  If 
they'd  hamstrung  a  few  hundred  private  bankers,  cut 
off  their  heads  and  burned  down  their  houses,  I'd 
advise  you  to  stick.  That's  sense  isn't  it?" 

Basine,  listening  to  the  uncomfortable  distortions 
of  his  sister,  made  up  his  mind.  He  translated  her 
vicious  suggestions  into  the  less  inconveniencing 


GARGOYLES  199 

idea  .  .  .  "The  biggest  part  of  the  work  in  the 
fight  against  the  banks  has  been  done  already,  Doris. 
And  the  rest  anybody  can  do." 

"Yes,"  she  smiled,  "if  you're  going  to  be  of  service 
to  the  public  you  must  be  careful  to  devote  yourself 
to  worthwhile  reforms.  You  always  had  a  clearer 
way  of  putting  things,  George." 

She  despised  him.  He  could  feel  it  now.  He  looked 
at  her  and  wondered  again.  She  was  beautiful.  A 
complete  change  had  come  over  her  since  he'd  come 
in.  She  seemed  warm  with  emotion,  alive,  human. 
But  she  smiled  in  an  offensive  way.  He  preferred  her 
viciousness.  That  was  impersonal — something  queer 
in  her  head.  This  other  was  a  condescension  that 
angered  him.  He  sat  thinking;  she  was  playing  with 
him.  It  would  be  better  if  he  never  saw  her. 

"How  is  Henrietta?"  she  asked. 

The  question  had  long  ago  became  an  invitation  to 
confession.  He  avoided  her  eyes. 

"Fanny  and  Aubrey  were  over,"  he  answered. 

She  interrupted.    "Please  don't  talk  about  them." 

"Oh,  nothing  in  particular,"  he  hastened.  "Hen- 
rietta is  the  same  as  ever. 

Doris  laughed. 

"An  ideal  wife  for  a  future  public  hero,"  she 
exclaimed.  Basine  frowned. 

"I'd  rather  you  didn't  make  a  joke  about  such 
things,  Doris." 

"I'm  not  joking.  But  to  be  a  great  leader  a  man 
must  have  only  one  love — the  love  of  being  a  great 
leader." 

"That's  wrong,"  Basine  blurted  out.  "A  woman 
can  help  a  man  forward  if  he  loves  her  and  she's 
clever  and  loves  him." 


200  GARGOYLES 

"She  can't,"  Doris  said  softly.  "Because  she  doesn't 
want  to.  If  she  loves  him,  she  doesn't  want  him  to 
be  great.  She  may  inspire  him  but  just  as  soon  as  she 
sees  his  inspiration  takes  him  away  from  her,  she 
turns  around  and  tries  to  ruin  him.  So  she  can  have 
him  to  herself." 

Basine  listened  impatiently.  This  was  a  child  prat- 
tling. Doris  was  laughing.  He  looked  at  her  ques- 
tioningly.  Her  laughter  continued  and  grew  harsh. 

"You  fool,"  she  sighed,  controlling  herself.  "Oh 
you  fool." 

Basine  shook  his  head.  He  was  serious.  There 
were  hidden  facts  in  his  mind.  He  knew  something 
about  what  a  woman  might  do  to  help  a  man  for- 
ward. These  facts  seemed  to  him  allies — secret  allies, 
as  he  contradicted  his  sister. 

"I  insist  you're  wrong,"  he  said.  He  was  determined 
to  prove  her  wrong.  But  she  went  on,  ignoring  his 
intensity. 

"Your  wife  is  ideal,  George.  Colorless,  stupid. 
Dead.  Without  desires  or  egoism.  An  ideal  wife  for 
a  man  of  ambition.  The  kind  that  will  let  you  alone." 
"Nonsense.  You're  utterly  wrong,"  he  cried.  He 
must  prove  to  her  how  utterly  wrong  she  was.  There 
was  Ruth. 

"Men  owe  most  of  their  success  to  the  impulse  the 
right  woman  can  give  them.  Henrietta's  all  right.  But 
she's  so  damn  dead.  She's  interested  in  nothing.  Just 
a  child  with  a  child's  mind  and  outlook.  And  she  gets 
more  so  every  year.  Good  God,  if  I  had  somebody 
with  life  in  her.  Keen  and  .  .  .  who  loved  me. 
So  that  I  wanted  to  be  great  in  her  eyes.  It  would 
be  easier.  Somebody  .  .  .  like  you,  Doris." 


GARGOYLES  201 

He  paused,  confused.  "I  mean,"  he  added,  "your 
type.  The  intellectual  and  female  combined." 

He  had  long  ago  told  her  of  his  courtship,  of  the 
curious  way  he  had  tricked  himself  into  matrimony 
and  she  had  always  laughed  at  his  unhappiness  and 
said  this — only  a  fool  tricked  himself  as  he  had  done. 
Nevertheless  his  marriage  was  ideal. 

"Men  instinctively  pick  out  what  they  need,"  she 
would  say.  "And  a  man  like  you  needs  a  nonentity 
like  Henrietta.  You  wait  and  see.  Your  happiness 
isn't  coming  from  emotion  inside  but  from  emotion 
outside — the  noise  of  praise  the  public  will  someday 
give  you." 

But  there  were  facts  now  hidden  in  his  head  to  dis- 
prove this.  He  started  as  Doris  announced  casually, 

"Ruth  Davis  may  drop  in  this  afternoon." 

They  finished  their  tea.  A  knock  on  the  door 
frightened  him.  The  girl!  No.  Doris  called,  "Come 
in,"  and  Levine  entered.  Basine  nodded  to  him. 

"I'll  have  to  be  going,"  he  said  as  Levine  sat  down. 
He  disliked  the  man.  Doris  nodded.  She  appeared  to 
have  lost  interest  in  him  and,  her  tea  finished,  she 
was  sitting  back  in  her  chair  with  her  eyes  half  shut 
and  her  hands  listless  in  her  lap.  Levine  was  talking 
quietly  .  .  .  "You  look  tired,  Doris.  Like  to  go 
hear  Lindstrum  lecture  tonight?  No?  Very  well.  I 
just  dropped  in  to  see  if  you  would.  Come  on." 

"No,"  she  frowned  at  him. 

"I'm  sorry." 

"Why?" 

"I  think  it  would  be  better  for  you  to  .  .  ." 

Her  eyes  shut  him  off.   They  were  blazing. 

"Please,"  she  cried.  Then  with  a  sigh  she  turned 
toward  the  window. 


202  GARGOYLES 

Basine  stood  up.  He  pretended  a  leisureliness, 
opening  a  few  books  and  staring  with  apparent  interest 
at  passages  in  them.  Levine  and  his  sister  were 
a  strange  pair.  Doris  queer  and  moody  and  going 
into  impossible  tantrums.  And  this  man  with  brown 
negro  eyes  and  a  loose-lipped  mouth  that  reeked  with 
sarcasms.  There  were  secrets  between  them.  Nothing 
wrong,  but  secrets.  He  remembered  the  girl  was 
coming  and  grew  frightened. 

"Well,  good-bye,"  he  said  aloud.  "And  calm  down, 
Doris." 

He  waited  uncomfortably  for  her  to  say  something. 
But  she  was  silent.  He  looked  at  his  watch  and 
exclaimed  in  a  surprised,  matter-of-fact  voice,  uOh 
my!  It's  almost  four.  Good-bye.  I  must  run." 

He  hurried  away  as  if  some  logical  necessity  were 
spurring  him  on.  The  makebelieve  had  been  unneces- 
sary for  Doris  had  paid  no  attention  to  the  manner 
of  his  departure. 

Outside  he  paused  and  looked  up  and  down  the 
street.  He  felt  relieved.  He  had  left  in  time.  Cross- 
ing from  an  opposite  corner  was  Ruth  Davis.  He 
would  pretend  he  hadn't  seen  her  and  walk  on  in  an 
opposite  direction.  He  knew  she  was  watching  him 
as  she  approached.  He  was  frightened.  A  sense  of 
suffocation.  He  desired  to  run  away. 

She  was  young.  Her  eyes  had  a  way  of  remaining 
in  his  thought.  When  he  talked  to  people,  her  eyes 
came  before  him  and  looked  at  him.  They  asked 
questions. 

The  last  time  he  had  sat  with  her  in  his  sister's 
studio  he  had  gone  away  with  a  feeling  of  panic.  He 
was  used  to  women.  Invariably  he  disliked  them. 


GARGOYLES  203 

They  seemed  to  him  variants  of  his  wife.  They 
reminded  him  of  Henrietta  and  he  was  able  to  say 
to  himself,  "They  look  attractive  and  mysterious.  But 
underneath,  they're  all  alike." 

He  meant  they  were  all  like  Henrietta.  In  this 
way  his  distaste  for  his  wife  had  kept  him  faithful 
to  her  because  his  imagination  balked  at  the  idea  of 
embracing  another  Henrietta. 

But  Ruth  Davis  after  he  had  met  her  a  few  times, 
always  in  his  sister's  presence,  had  impressed  him 
differently.  Perhaps  it  was  because  he  had  always 
seen  her  with  his  sister.  In  many  ways  she  reminded 
him  of  Doris.  She  was  dark  like  Doris  and  had  many 
of  her  mannerisms. 

He  had  not  thought  of  her  as  a  variant  of  Hen- 
rietta. Rather  as  a  variant  of  Doris.  He  had  never 
tested  his  immunity  to  her  by  imagining  an  embrace. 
When  he  talked  to  her  he  grew  eager  to  impress  her. 
He  wanted  her  to  understand  him,  not  quite  as  Doris 
understood  him.  She  was  cynical  but  not  in  the  way 
Doris  was.  Her  mind  was  kindlier. 

Because  he  felt  frightened  now  at  her  approach 
and  a  desire  to  run  away  without  speaking  to  her,  he 
held  himself  to  the  spot.  He  would  get  the  better  of 
this  thing,  he  told  himself  quickly,  by  facing  what- 
ever it  was  and  fighting  it  down.  He  would  overcome 
the  curious  effect  she  had  on  him  by  confronting  her. 
In  this  way,  a  very  high-minded  way,  he  persuaded 
himself  to  wait  for  her  and  to  talk  to  her.  Which  was 
what  he  wanted  to  do  above  everything  else. 

She  was  pleased.  They  shook  hands.  The  confusion 
left  him.  He  was  quite  master  of  himself.  Her  dark 


204  GARGOYLES 

eyes  were  not  dangerous  like  his  sister's.  She  was  a 
bright,  pretty  girl. 

"I'm  sorry  I  can't  visit  with  you  and  Doris,"  he 
said.  "But  I  have  an  engagement." 

"Oh."  She  seemed  disappointed.  Her  eyes  be- 
trayed almost  a  hurt.  This  made  him  even  more 
master  of  himself.  He  had  been  foolishly  worried 
about  the  girl.  Just  a  bright,  pretty  girl  and  a  friend 
of  his  sister. 

"By  the  way,"  he  said,  "you  were  saying  the  other 
day  that  you'd  like  a  job  in  the  state  attorney's  of- 
fice. My  secretary's  quit.  Would  you  like  that?" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Basine.  That's  awfully  kind  of  you.  But 
I  ...  I  don't  know  shorthand  and  I  suppose 
that  .  .  ." 

"That  makes  no  difference,"  he  smiled  tolerantly. 
"I  need  somebody  able  to  look  after  things  in  general. 
If  you  want  the  job,  why  come  down  and  see  me 
tomorrow  morning  about  ten  and  we'll  start  work." 

"I'd  be  delighted,"  she  answered.  She  was  about  to 
say  more  but  he  grew  curt. 

"You'll  excuse  me,  won't  you.  I  have  to  run,"  he 
said.  "See  you  at  ten  tomorrow,  eh?"  He  wanted  to 
make  the  thing  certain  because  otherwise  he  would 
have  to  hire  someone  else.  "At  ten  then,"  he  repeated. 

"If  you  really  want  me." 

"I  think  you'll  get  along  all  right.  And  I  need  some- 
body at  once." 

He  walked  away  with  a  feeling  of  mastery.  He  had 
overcome  the  confusion  the  sight  of  her  had  started 
in  him.  He  was  sincerely  glad  of  that.  He  disliked 
the  idea  of  entanglements.  Politics  was  a  glass  house 


GARGOYLES  205 

and  entanglements  were  dangerous.  Then  besides, 
there  was  Henrietta. 

His  fidelity  to  his  wife  was  a  habit  that  had  become 
almost  an  obsession.  His  distaste  and  frequent  revul- 
sion toward  her  made  him  concentrate  excitedly  upon 
the  idea  of  fidelity. 

By  assuring  himself  of  the  nobility  of  faithfulness 
and  of  its  necessity  as  a  matter  of  high  decency,  he 
vindicated  in  a  measure  the  fact  that  he  seemed  too 
cowardly  to  philander.  He  had  felt  this  cowardliness 
and  was  continually  trying  to  distort  it  into  more  self- 
ennobling  emotions.  This  was  what  made  him  so 
excited  a  champion  of  domestic  felicity,  marital  fidel- 
ity and  kindred  ideas.  He  was  able  to  convert  him- 
self into  a  man  whose  ideals  prevented  him  from 
succumbing  to  his  lower  instincts.  Thus  instead  of 
feeling  ashamed  of  the  cowardliness  which  kept  him 
from  doing  what  he  desired,  he  felt  on  the  contrary, 
proud  of  his  capacity  for  living  up  to  his  high  ideals, 
which  meant — of  doing  what  he  didn't  want  to  do. 

This  cowardliness  was  an  involved  emotion.  It 
was  inspired  by  a  fear  of  detection,  if  he  philandered, 
a  fear  of  physical  and  social  consequences.  But  more 
than  that  and  too  curious  for  his  thought  to  unravel, 
it  was  inspired  by  a  fear  of  hurting  Henrietta.  This 
fear  was  the  predominant  factor  in  his  life. 

He  sought  at  times  to  understand  it  but  its  under- 
standing eluded  him.  He  had  been  tempted  at  times 
to  talk  to  Doris  about  it.  But  as  yet  it  was  a  confes- 
sion withheld. 

The  greater  his  distaste  for  his  wife  became  and 
the  more  the  thought  of  her  grew  obnoxious,  the 
deeper  did  this  fear  of  hurting  her  take  form  in  him. 


206  GARGOYLES 

Often  when  driven  to  anger  by  her  increasing  stupid- 
ity he  would  lie  awake  at  night  by  her  side  thinking 
of  her  in  accidents  which  might  kill  her.  He  would 
lie  awake  picturing  her  brought  home  dying — and 
going  over  in  his  fancy  the  details  of  her  death  scene. 

And  then  as  if  the  thing  were  too  sweet  to  relin- 
quish, he  would  go  over  in  his  mind  the  details  of  the 
funeral,  picturing  himself  beside  the  grave  weeping, 
picturing  her  father  and  the  numerous  mourners; 
giving  them  words  to  say  and  assigning  them  little 
parts  in  the  drama  of  the  burial.  The  thing  would 
become  a  completely  worked  out  scene — like  a  care- 
ful description  in  a  novel. 

Then  he  would  picture  himself  returning  home  with 
his  children.  He  would  close  his  eyes  and  play  with 
the  fancy  impersonally,  as  if  he  were  dictating  it  for 
writing.  Back  from  the  grave  with  his  children  .  .  . 
The  house  empty  of  Henrietta.  The  chair  in  which 
she  always  sat  and  sewed,  empty.  And  she  would 
never  sit  there  again.  The  chair  would  always  be 
empty. 

At  this  point  his  fancy  would  grow  sad.  At  first 
the  sadness  would  be  as  if  it  were  part  of  the  make- 
believe — as  if  this  fiction  figure  of  himself  were 
mourning  the  death  of  his  wife.  But  gradually  the 
sadness  would  change  and  become  real.  It  would  be- 
come a  sadness  inspired  by  the  thought  of  her  dying 
.  .  .  sometime.  Someday  she  would  be  dead  and 
he  would  be  alone.  And  this  idea  would  grow  unbear- 
able. Just  as  it  had  been  deliciously  desirable  a  few 
minutes  before. 

The  sadness  that  came  to  him  then  was  no  more 
than  a  remorse  he  felt  for  having  in  his  fancy  planned 


GARGOYLES  207 

and  executed  her  death.  A  remorse  inspired  by  his 
feeling  of  guilt.  But  to  Basine  it  seemed  a  sadness 
inspired  by  some  inner  love  for  his  wife.  It  would 
surprise  him,  that  there  was  an  inner  love,  and  he 
would  lie  and  think,  "Oh,  I  don't  want  her  dead.  I 
love  her.  Poor,  dear  Henrietta."  And  he  would  reach 
over  and  caress  her  tenderly,  tears  filling  his  eyes. 

It  was  at  such  moments  while  doing  penance  for 
the  imaginative  murder  of  his  wife,  that  a  physical 
passion  for  her  would  come  to  him.  His  caresses 
would  grow  warmer  and  in  the  possession  of  her 
which  followed,  he  would  be  able  to  blot  out  of  his 
memory  the  unbearable  self-accusation  aroused  by  his 
desire  for  her  death.  Thus  his  fear  of  hurting  her, 
even  of  contradicting  her  in  any  way  which  would 
make  her  unhappy,  was  a  device  which  guarded  him 
against  contemplating  the  impulse  concealed  in  him — 
to  get  rid  of  her  even  by  murdering  her. 

His  fidelity  to  his  wife,  inspired  more  by  this  fear 
of  hurting  her  than  by  the  social  cowardice  which  in- 
volved the  idea  of  detection,  had  become  a  fetish  with 
him.  The  less  he  desired  her  and  the  more  repugnant 
she  grew  for  him,  the  more  desperately  he  defended 
to  himself  and  to  others  the  virtues  of  marital  faith- 
fulness. 

He  had  advanced  in  eight  years  into  an  intolerant 
champion  of  morality.  Even  his  political  orations 
bristled  with  panegyrics  on  the  sanctity  of  the  home 
and  the  high  duty  men  owed  their  wives.  The  thing 
repeated  itself  over  and  over  in  his  day,  haunted  his 
night  and  filtered  through  all  his  public  and  private 
actions.  It  had  formed  the  basis  of  a  new  Basine — 
the  moral  champion.  It  had  colored  his  ambitions  and 


208  GARGOYLES 

determined  his  direction  of  thought.  It  hammered — 
a  hidden  psychological  refrain  through  the  fibers  of 
his  thought.  .  .  In  order  to  reconcile  himself  to 
the  distasteful  role  he  had  foisted  upon  himself  by 
accidentally  embracing  Henrietta  in  his  mother's 
kitchen  nine  years  ago,  he  must  eulogize  his  predica- 
ment and  convince  himself  and  others  that  all  devi- 
ations were  a  vicious  and  dishonorable  matter.  Held 
by  neither  love  nor  desire  to  the  side  of  a  woman  he 
had  tricked  himself  into  marrying,  he  managed  to 
bind  himself  to  her  by  the  stern  worship  of  a  code 
which  proclaimed  fidelity  the  highest  manifestation  of 
the  soul. 

As  he  walked  toward  a  street  car  he  was  proud  of 
his  self-conquest.  He  was  thinking  about  the  girl, 
Ruth.  He  had  taken  himself  in  hand  and  overcome 
the  dangerous  confusion  that  the  sight  of  her  started. 
His  sense  of  honor  preened  itself  on  the  victory.  That 
was  the  way  to  handle  oneself — always  face  the  facts. 
It  was  better  than  hiding  one's  head  in  the  sand.  Look, 
it  had  happened  this  way.  By  being  matter-of-fact, 
by  converting  the  girl  from  a  luring,  enigmatic  figure 
into  an  employee,  he  had  established  an  immunity  in 
himself.  Was  he  certain  of  this?  Yes,  she  would  be 
merely  another  of  the  young  women  employed  in  his 
office.  And  he  was  in  love  with  none  of  them.  Or  even 
interested.  So  their  relation  would  be  that  of  employee 
and  employer.  Which  was  harmless  and  honorable. 

He  walked  along,  piling  up  assurances.  As  he 
entered  the  car  he  was  going  over  in  his  mind  with 
an  imaginative  eagerness  the  details  of  the  situation 
he  had  created.  He  would  be  very  stern,  aloof.  He 
would  acquaint  her  with  his  secret  files  and  gradually 


GARGOYLES  209 

educate  her  into  an  efficient  assistant.  She  was  a 
university  girl.  Of  course  her  running  around  with 
freaks,  the  way  she  did — artists  and  talky  women, 
was  a  handicap.  But  she  would  get  over  that  and  be- 
come entirely  sensible. 

It  was  a  pleasant  day  dream  that  wiled  away  the 
tedium  of  the  ride  home.  An  unaccountable  happiness 
played  around  the  fancies  in  his  mind.  He  gave  him- 
self to  its  warmth  with  a  certain  defiance — as  if  he 
were  denying  unbidden  doubts  underlying  his  dreams. 

He  had  hired  Ruth  Davis  in  order  that  he  might 
be  near  her.  And  underlying  the  enthusiastic  assur- 
ances which  he  crowded  into  his  mind  as  a  stop  gap 
for  the  elation  this  fact  inspired,  was  the  knowledge 
that,  as  his  secretary,  she  would  come  to  perceive  what 
a  great  man  he  was.  His  files,  his  secret  memoranda, 
his  intricate  activities  all  of  which  she  would  come  to 
know  as  his  private  secretary — would  be  a  boast. 

Yes,  his  very  curtness,  sternness,  preoccupation  would 
all  be  part  of  this  boast.  She  would  see  him  as  a 
man  of  importance,  a  man  of  rising  power.  He  would 
have  to  ignore  her  in  order  to  confer  with  well-known 
men-politicians,  police  officials,  party  leaders.  And 
this  ignoring  of  her  would  be  a  boast — all  a  boast  of 
his  prestige  and  of  the  fact  that  he  was  a  man  of 
fascinating  activities  and  that  these  activities  made 
it  impossible  for  him  to  devote  himself  as  other  lesser 
men  might,  to  paying  her  any  attention. 

Yes,  the  thought  of  her  being  in  his  office  where  he 
might  look  at  her,  but  more  especially  where  she  might 
look  at  him — for  he  did  not  intend  to  pay  any  at- 
tention to  her — thrilled  him.  And  gradually  the  cause 
of  his  elation  protruded  and  he  was  forced  to  face  it. 


210  GARGOYLES 

He  alighted  from  the  car  thinking  as  he  walked  to- 
ward his  apartment. 

"I'll  have  to  be  careful  though.  I  don't  want  her 
to  fall  in  love.  That  would  be  embarassing.  Girls  are 
susceptible.  I'll  not  encourage  her  in  anything  like 
that.  Be  businesslike  and  aloof.  Treat  her  absolutely 
as  a  stranger." 

This  idea  thrilled  him  further.  It  would  be  sweet 
to  ignore  her,  even  to  be  strict  with  her  and  carping 
at  times,  to  scold  for  some  error.  Yes,  that  was  the 
right  way  to  handle  the  situation. 

And  he  walked  on  with  a  childish  smile  over  his 
face.  He  had  determined  upon  a  high-minded  course 
which  absolved  him  from  all  blame  in  anything  that 
might  happen.  Aloofness,  sternness.  Now  that  they 
were  going  to  be  together  every  day,  he  already  looked 
upon  her  position  as  his  secretary  as  an  inevitable 
predicament  not  brought  on  by  any  action  of  his;  now 
that  they  were  to  be  that  close,  he  would  rigorously 
observe  all  the  conventions. 

At  the  same  time  he  was  inwardly  aware  that  such 
a  course  as  he  had  mapped  for  himself  would  unques- 
tionably have  a  certain  effect  upon  the  girl.  It  must. 
It  would  cause  her  to  respect  and  admire  him  and 
finally  to  fall  in  love  with  him.  Tremendously  in  love 
since  there  would  be  no  outlet  for  her  passion.  Oh 
yes,  that  would  certainly  happen.  But  it  wouldn't  be 
his  fault  and  nothing  would  come  of  it.  Because  he 
would  remain  sternly  aloof. 

The  thought  of  being  worshipped  from  afar,  of 
being  looked  upon  all  day  by  eyes  that  adored  him, 
brought  an  excitement  into  his  step.  And  he  ran  up 
the  stairs  to  his  apartment.  He  was  eager  to  enter  his 
home  and  greet  his  wife.  She  had  become  suddenly  a 


GARGOYLES  211 

tolerable  person,  one  whose  presence  he  might  even 
enjoy.  He  felt  happy  and  he  wanted  her  to  share  his 
happiness. 

14 

Fanny  listened  carelessly  to  her  husband.  After 
eight  years,  listening  to  what  Aubrey  had  to  say  had 
become  unnecessary.  Because  his  talk  never  changed. 
What  he  said  yesterday  he  would  say  tomorrow.  He 
prided  himself  on  this.  He  explained  that  it  revealed 
him  a  man  of  unswerving  principles.  Fanny,  who  had 
become  a  rather  sarcastic  person,  kept  her  answer  to 
herself.  A  man  of  unswerving  principles  was  a  great 
asset  to  the  community.  But  a  terrible  bore  to  his 
home. 

She  sat  watching  Henrietta  sew.  There  was  a 
placidity  about  Henrietta  that  always  irritated  her. 
Henrietta  was  still  pretty  although  beginning  to  fade. 
Her  eyes  were  colorless  and  her  lips  were  getting 
thinner.  But  she  seemed  happy  and  Fanny  wondered 
about  this. 

Mr.  Mackay  seemed  very  attentive  to  Henrietta. 
Of  course,  Mr.  Mackay  was  Aubrey's  partner  and  a 
friend  of  her  brother,  George.  But  it  was  odd  to  call 
on  Henrietta  unexpectedly  and  find  her  talking  alone 
to  a  man  in  her  library.  Even  to  Mr.  Mackay. 

Fanny  was  suspicious  about  such  things.  She  had 
been  utterly  faithful  to  Aubrey  during  their  married 
life  and  this  fidelity,  somehow,  had  developed  in  her 
an  attitude  of  chronic  suspicion  concerning  the  fidelity 
of  other  women.  It  was  her  habit  when  visiting  her 
friends  to  sit  and  speculate  upon  their  possible  im- 
moralities. She  had  frequently  got  herself  into  trouble 
by  setting  scandalous  rumors  afloat. 


212  GARGOYLES 

"Henry  Thorpe  and  Gwendolyn  see  quite  a  great 
deal  of  each  other,"  she  would  say.  "More  than  we 
know,  I  think.  I  wonder  what  Mrs.  Thorpe  thinks 
about  it.  You  know  Gwendolyn,  for  all  her  pretenses, 
is  an  out  and  out  sensual  type." 

No  one  was  immune  from  Fanny's  speculations.  In 
fact  the  more  incongruous  the  idea  of  any  one's  sin- 
fulness^  seemed,  the  more  enthusiastically  Fanny 
embraced  it. 

She  was  more  than  half  aware  that  thinking  about 
others  in  immoral  situations  seemed  to  excite  herself. 
She  would  endeavor  to  introduce  a  note  of  indignation 
into  her  speculations.  But  the  note  was  too  forced  to 
deceive  her,  although  it  deceived  others.  And  she 
finally  abandoned  herself  to  the  thrill  which  thinking 
evilly  of  others  stirred  in  her. 

She  would  often  allow  her  suspicions  to  become 
detailed.  Merely  to  suspect  a  woman  of  being  im- 
moral was  not  as  satisfying  as  to  figure  the  manner 
of  her  sin,  the  play  by  play,  word  by  word  drama  of 
her  seduction.  She  relished  such  fancied  details. 
Suspecting  others  of  immorality  enabled  Fanny  to 
enjoy  vicariously  situations  which  she  had  as  a  matter 
of  course  denied  herself. 

Her  love  for  Aubrey  had  not  changed.  It  had,  in 
fact,  grown  or  at  least  become  inflated  by  habit.  At 
the  beginning  of  their  union  she  had  suspected  him 
of  being  a  hypocrite.  She  had  immediately  resented 
his  virtue.  Then  for  a  short  time  she  had  figured  out 
that  he  must  be  unfaithful  to  her,  that  this  accounted 
for  his  virtue. 

But  her  resentment  had  remained  mute.  The  years 
had  proved  to  her,  as  much  as  proof  was  possible, 
that  Aubrey  was  no  hypocrite  and  that  his  attitude 


GARGOYLES  213 

toward  such  things  was  due  to  his  being  a  high-mind- 
ed, decent  man.  He  loved  her.  But  in  his  own  way. 
He  explained  to  her,  uMost  marriages  are  ruined  be- 
cause people  are  lead  astray  by  sex.  Sex  is  a  duty.  I 
don't  think  it's  any  more  moral  for  married  people  to 
wallow  in  sex  than  it  is  for  unmarried  people.  Sex 
has  an  object  beyond  itself  which  people  ignore.  It 
is  a  means  to  an  end — children."  And  they  had  gone 
on  for  eight  years  living  up  to  these  standards.  But 
they  had  no  children.  Fanny  was  willing  to  acquiesce 
in  her  husband's  ideals,  since  she  had  to,  in  everything 
except  about  children.  She  didn't  want  any. 

Fanny  had  accepted  his  version  of  the  thing  and 
lived  by  it.  There  were  some  rewards.  She  managed 
to  derive  a  dubious  satisfaction  during  their  infrequent 
hours  of  passion  from  the  knowledge  that  he  was  a 
famous  man.  She  also  found  a  source  of  secret  excite- 
ment in  his  austerity  and  virtue.  The  fact  that  he  was 
so  high-minded  and  aloof  from  any  thought  of  sex 
offered  a  piquant  contrast  to  occasions  when  he  con- 
descended to  be  her  lover.  Such  occasions  were  for 
Fanny  far  from  austere  and  high-minded.  She  allowed 
the  keen  sensuality  of  her  nature  free  reign.  Aubrey's 
noble  attitude  served  to  inspire  her  with  a  sense  of 
guilt,  as  if  their  relations  were  really  as  indecent  and 
immoral  as  he  contended  sex  to  be.  And  the  idea  of 
their  being  indecent  and  immoral)  heightened  her 
enjoyment  of  them. 

She  wondered  at  many  things  about  Aubrey.  De- 
spite his  aversion  to  sex,  (she  did  not  think  of  it  as 
an  aversion  but  as  a  high-mindedness, )  he  was  yet 
very  attentive  to  women.  Not  in  the  way  that  most 
men  were  attentive.  But  chivalrously.  He  had  become 
during  their  married  life  a  veritable  Chesterfield  and 


214  GARGOYLES 

Sir  Raleigh.  It  was  not  only  his  manner — his  observ- 
ation of  little  rules  of  conduct  such  as  rising  when  a 
woman  entered  or  helping  her  on  with  her  wraps,  or 
assisting  her  to  pull  up  her  chair  at  the  table  or  open- 
ing doors  or  any  of  the  thousand  niceties — that 
marked  his  attitude  toward  women.  It  was  also  his 
ideas.  He  frequently  discussed  women  and  his  point 
of  view  was  more  chivalrous  than  most  men's.  He 
said  that  he  believed  in  the  fineness  of  women.  That 
a  woman  was  a  pure,  beautiful  soul.  And  he  was  quick 
to  resent  insults  to  women,  even  general  insults  which 
sought  to  reflect  upon  woman's  purity  as  a  whole  or 
to  make  her  out  a  scheming  sexual  animal. 

Fanny  was  proud  of  his  chivalrous  tone.  It  dis- 
tinguished him  and  she  did  not  resent  the  fact  that  it 
interested  women.  She  had  never  been  jealous  of 
Aubrey.  And  she  had  gradually  accustomed  herself 
to  his  high-mindedness.  She  would  have  liked  aban- 
doned caresses  and  embraces.  But  these  had  never  been 
forthcoming,  even  on  their  honeymoon  long  ago.  And 
she  had  given  up  dreaming  of  them — for  herself.  She 
dreamed  about  them  now  in  connection  with  others 
and  her  mind,  colored  by  unsatisfied  desires,  indulged 
itself  in  the  luxurious  and  lascivious  details  of  her 
suspicions  of  others. 

She  sat  watching  Henrietta  as  Mr.  Mackay  talked 
to  her  and  despite  an  effort  to  control  her  thought, 
she  began  to  wonder  what  they  had  been  doing  alone 
in  the  apartment  before  she  and  Aubrey  came.  He 
had  probably  taken  her  hand  and  pulled  her  to  him, 
put  his  arms  around  her  and  Henrietta,  overcome 
with  a  sudden  passion,  had  probably  flung  her  arms 
about  his  shoulders  and  given  him  her  lips  wildly.  And 
just  as  they  were  standing  deliriously  embraced  like 


GARGOYLES  215 

that,  the  bell  had  probably  rung  and  Henrietta  had 
jumped  away  and  grabbed  her  sewing.  She  had  come 
to  the  door  with  her  sewing  in  her  hand  and  .  .  . 

Fanny  smiled  at  the  colorless  and  unsuspecting  Hen- 
rietta. Her  sense  of  humor  had  done  for  her  what 
her  sense  of  justice  had  failed  to  do.  It  controlled 
her  fancies.  To  imagine  Henrietta  giving  her  lips 
wildly  to  anybody,  particularly  the  red-faced  Mr. 
Mackay,  was  ludicrous.  Poor  Henrietta  with  her  two 
noisy  children  and  her  interminable  sewing.  She  didn't 
envy  her  the  children.  Thank  Heaven,  despite  Au- 
brey's high-minded  attitude  toward  sex  as  a  distasteful 
mechanism  through  which  the  race  continued  itself, 
they  had  had  no  children. 

There  was  something  pitiful  about  Henrietta.  She 
was  so  dumb.  And  even  when  she  dressed  up  and 
powdered  and  frilled,  she  always  seemed  tired.  A 
stranger  might  think  she  was  an  invalid  just  recovered 
from  some  serious  illness  .  .  .  Henrietta  was  prob- 
ably like  Aubrey  about  "those  things".  Very  high- 
minded  and  aloof. 

Mr.  Mackay  and  Aubrey  were  talking  about  adver- 
tising now.  They  always  did  this  soon  or  late.  And 
they  usually  quarreled  because  Aubrey  was  inclined  to 
insist  that  his  end  of  the  business — the  preparation  of 
copy  and  ad.  material — was  as  important  as  Mr. 
Mackay's  end.  Mr.  Mackay  was  in  charge  of  the 
salesmen. 

She  hadn't  wanted  to  call  on  her  brother.  But 
Aubrey  insisted.  There  was  a  deal  on.  The  city  was 
going  to  do  a  lot  of  advertising  and  the  firm  of  Mac- 
kay-Gilchrist  wanted  the  job.  Basine  could  help  them 
pull  wires. 

The  bell  rang  and  interrupted  their  talk. 


216  GARGOYLES 

"That  must  be  George,"  Henrietta  exclaimed.  She 
grew  nervous  and  began  to  flutter.  The  maid  was  out 
for  the  afternoon  and  she  went  to  the  door  herself. 
A  strange  voice  came  from  the  hall  as  the  door 
opened. 

"Oh,  come  right  in.  George  isn't  home  but  I 
expect  him  any  minute,"  Henrietta  greeted  the  arrival. 
Paul  Schroder,  one  of  the  attorneys  who  worked  in 
the  mysterious  place  called  the  state  attorney's  of- 
fice with  her  husband,  entered. 

He  was  younger  than  her  husband  and  of  a  type  she 
disliked.  She  didn't  like  George  to  have  him  as  a 
friend.  He  was  too  brutal  looking.  And  too  noisy. 
Her  submission  to  George  had  developed  a  keen  set 
of  prejudices  in  her.  She  liked  only  people  who  re- 
minded her  of  her  husband — normal-sized,  thin  men 
with  aristocratic  manners,  and  quick  nervous  eyes. 
And  what  she  liked  in  such  people  was  only  the  parts 
of  them  that  seemed  like  George.  All  other  kinds  of 
men  annoyed  her.  Particularly  the  kind  Schroder  was 
— rough,  coarse  and  laughing  too  loudly  always.  She 
thought  of  him  as  a  vulgar  animal  and  once  or  twice 
hinted  to  George  that  she  didn't  like  to  have  him  visit 
the  house. 

Schroder  entered,  his  blond,  well  shaped  head  toss- 
ing dramatically.  The  exuberance  of  his  manner  gave 
him  the  air  of  being  larger  than  he  was.  Aubrey 
Gilchrist  when  he  straightened  up  was  taller  than 
Schroder  and  Mr.  Mackay's  shoulders  were  broader. 
But  somehow  the  blond-headed  man  dwarfed  them 
both  as  he  shook  hands  with  them.  He  sat  down  next 
to  Fanny. 

"Well,"  he  said  to  her,  "how  you  been?  Bright- 
eyed  as  ever."  He  laughed  and  Fanny  smiled. 


GARGOYLES  217 

"What's  the  matter  with  friend  husband/'  he  turned 
to  Henrietta.  "Can't  you  keep  His  Nobs  home  like  a 
God-fearing  man  on  Sundays?" 

Henrietta  winced. 

"He  went  to  see  his  sister  who  is  ill,"  she  said. 
"He'll  be  back  any  minute." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  Schroder  answered,  as  if 
Henrietta  had  apologized  and  he  was  forgiving  her. 
Then  to  Aubrey  he  added,  "What  are  you  two  pirates 
after  from  Basine?" 

Aubrey  raised  his  eyebrows.  He  was  subject  to 
quick  dislikes.  Schroder  was  one  of  them.  Schroder 
was  the  kind  of  person  who  had  no  respect  for  merit 
or  his  superiors.  The  world,  unfortunately,  was  full 
of  such  people — boors  lacking  the  intelligence  to  per- 
ceive their  betters.  Aubrey  always  felt  ill  at  ease  in 
their  presence. 

Although  he  had  written  no  novels  for  five  years, 
in  his  own  mind  he  was  still  a  literary  figure  of  im- 
portance. He  had  gone  into  the  advertising  business, 
but  not  permanently.  He  had  intended  at  first  remain- 
ing in  it  only  for  a  year  and  then  returning  to  his  writ- 
ing. He  wanted  to  do  a  different  sort  of  writing  and  a 
vacation  was  necessary.  He  wanted  to  do  something 
real.  He  had,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  lost  interest  in  the 
business  of  turning  out  narratives.  Worried  at  the 
time  by  this  loss  of  interest  in  his  work  he  had  ex- 
plained it  as  "an  ambition  for  better  things." 

But  five  years  had  passed  and  he  was  still  an 
advertising  man.  The  firm  of  Mackay  and  Gilchrist 
had  grown.  He  flattered  himself  that  its  success  had 
been  due  to  his  personal  prestige.  People  said,  "Oh, 
that's  Aubrey  Gilchrist,  the  writer.  Well,  that's  quite 
an  asset  for  an  advertising  concern."  And  so  they 


218  GARGOYLES 

brought  their  business  to  Mackay-Gilchrist. 

He  disliked  Schroder  because  on  the  few  occasions 
they  had  met,  the  man  had  exuberantly  ignored  the 
fact  he  was  Aubrey  Gilchrist.  Schroder  was  a  man 
who  had  no  interest  in  anything  outside  himself — a 
noisy,  self-satisfied  creature  with  no  reason  to  be  noisy 
or  self-satisfied.  He  had  never  done  anything. 

"I  don't  understand  what  you  mean,  Mr.  Schroder," 
Aubrey  answered  stiffly. 

"Ho  ho,"  Schroder  exclaimed,  "your  husband  is 
insulted,  Mrs.  Gilchrist.  Well,  I  apologize.  There's 
George,  I'll  lay  you  dollars  to  doughnuts." 

The  bell  had  rung.  Basine  entered.  Aubrey  looked 
significantly  at  his  partner.  The  significance  was  due 
to  the  fact  that  Schroder  seemed  likely  to  ruin  the 
visit.  Aubrey  announced  aloud  after  the  greetings : 

"Thought  we'd  drop  in  for  a  private  discussion, 
George." 

Henrietta  was  smiling  tenderly  at  her  husband. 

"Where  have  you  been?"  she  asked. 

"Well,  I've  got  great  news  for  you,"  Basine 
exclaimed.  The  company  looked  hopefully  at  him. 

"What,  dear?" 

"Oh,  I'll  tell  you  tonight,  little  girl." 

"If  it's  good  news  we'd  all  like  to  hear  it,"  Fanny 
insisted. 

Schroder  regarded  his  friend  askance.  He  suspected 
something.  He  had  left  Basine  yesterday  night 
and  there  had  been  no  hint  of  anything  happening. 
And  today  being  Sunday  ...  He  smiled  to  him- 
self. "Covering  up,"  he  thought.  "Husbands  are 
comical."  He  decided  not  to  press  Basine.  He  had 
evidently  been  up  to  something  .  .  .  "playing  a 


GARGOYLES  219 

matinee.'5  He  noticed  that  his  friend  was  trying  to 
change  the  subject. 

"Is  it  something  personal?"  Henrietta  asked  with 
a  frown.  "You  frighten  me,  George,  when  you  don't 
tell  me  things." 

Basine,  sitting  down,  beamed  with  enthusiasm  on 
the  group,  on  his  home. 

"Where  are  the  children?"  he  asked. 

"Over  at  the  Harveys,"  Henrietta  answered. 

"Well,"  said  her  husband  with  an  explosive  into- 
nation, "I've  made  up  my  mind  to  go  after  the  circuit 
court.  There's  a  chance  next  April." 

"Going  to  run  for  Judge,  eh?"  Schroder  asked  with 
interest. 

"Yes  sir,"  Basine  laughed.  "I  just  had  a  session 
with  some  of  the  boys  this  afternoon  and  we  discussed 
it." 

"Oh,  I  thought  you  were  at  Doris',"  Henrietta  in- 
terrupted. 

"I  did  see  her,"  Basine  answered,  "but  only  for  a 
few  seconds.  I  spent  most  of  the  afternoon  in  confer- 


ence." 


"Congratulations,"  Aubrey  spoke.  "Mac  and  I 
were  going  to  .  .  ." 

Schroder  stood  up. 

"What  do  you  say  if  we  take  a  walk,  Mrs.  Gil- 
christ,"  he  whispered  loudly.  "Your  husband  insists 
that  I  get  out.  And  I  won't  unless  you  come  along." 

He  laughed  good-naturedly  until  Aubrey  smiled, 
and  nodded  to  his  wife. 

"If  you  wish,  Fanny." 

"It's  awfully  nice  outside,"  Fanny  agreed  after  a 
pause  during  which  she  looked  carefully  out  of  the 


220  GARGOYLES 

window.  Basine  reached  for  his  wife's  hand  and  drew 
her  toward  his  chair. 

"You're  looking  very  well,"  he  smiled  at  her.  A 
pleasant  light  came  to  her  eyes.  For  a  moment  the 
youthfulness  that  people  had  once  admired  when  they 
had  called  her  "such  an  enthusiastic  girl"  returned  to 
her  manner. 

"Oh  now  George!"  she  exclaimed.  Basine  felt  a 
catch  in  his  heart.  A  remorse,  as  if  he  had  done  some- 
thing, came  over  him.  He  patted  her  hand  te/iderly. 
Henrietta  repeated  but  in  an  almost  colorless  voice, 
"Oh,  George." 

Schroder  followed  Fanny  down  the  steps.  As  the 
door  of  the  Basine  apartment  closed  behind  them, 
his  fingers  clutched  her  elbow  and  he  leaned  against 
her  in  a  straightforward,  jovial  manner. 

Her  experience  as  a  married  woman  had  brought 
a  directness  into  Fanny's  mind.  She  no  longer  found 
it  necessary  to  conceal  her  thoughts  from  herself.  She 
was  still  inclined  to  be  publicly  innocent  but  her 
mental  life  had  taken  on  the  proportions  of  an  endless 
debauch.  Marriage  not  only  legalized  sex  but  remov- 
ed the  barriers  to  thinking  about  it.  She  felt  herself 
blushing  childishly  as  Schroder,  squeezing  her  arm 
opened  the  door  with  a  flourish. 

15 

The  Gilchrist  home  on  Lake  Shore  drive  was  crowd- 
ed with  friends  and  relatives.  They  had  come  to  the 
funeral  of  William  Gilchrist.  Mr.  Gilchrist  lay  in  a 
coffin  in  the  drawing  room,  a  waxen-faced  figure 
under  a  glass  cover.  Flowers  filled  the  large  room 
with  a  damp,  sweet  odor. 

It  was  a  spring  morning.  The  air  was  colored  with 


GARGOYLES  221 

rain.  A  sulphurous  glow  lay  on  the  pavements.  It 
was  chilly.  Automobiles  lined  the  curb  outside  the 
Gilchrist  stone  house.  Polite,  sober-faced  people 
arrived  in  couples  and  groups  and  walked  seriously  up 
the  stone  steps  of  the  residence,  a  swarm  of  mummers 
striving  awkwardly  to  register  grief. 

Dignitaries  from  different  strata  were  assembling. 
The  Gilchrists  were  a  family  whose  prestige  was  ram- 
ified by  varied  contacts.  Celebrities  of  the  society 
columns  arrived — famous  tea  pourers,  tiara  wearers, 
charity  patronesses.  Professional  men  ranging  from 
retired  fuddy-duddies,  applying  their  waning  financial 
talents  to  the  diversion  of  philanthropy,  to  corpor- 
ation heads,  prominent  legal  advisors  and  medical 
geniuses  renowned  for  their  taciturnity — these  came 
for  Mrs.<  Gilchrist.  Bankers,  merchants,  industrial 
captains,  hospital  bigwigs — these  came  as  husbands 
and  also  as  contemporaries  of  Mr.  Gilchrist. 

The  leaders  of  the  city's  arts — a  sprinkling  of  paint- 
ers aping  the  manners  of  dapper  business  men,  of 
authors  vastly  superior  to  the  Bohemian  nature  of 
their  calling,  of  advertising  Napoleons,  opera  follow- 
ers, national  advertisers — these  came  for  Aubrey. 
Fanny,  through  her  brother  who  had  a  month  before 
been  elected  a  judge,  drew  a  formidable  group 
of  names — political  factotums,  powers  behind  rhrones, 
mystic  local  Cromwells.  Also  the  Younger  Set.  Ad- 
ded to  these  were  relatives,  business  associates  and 
finally  the  Press. 

There  was  a  dead  man  under  a  glass  cover  in  the 
house  and  the  distinguished  company,  crowding  the 
large  somber  rooms  of  the  Gilchrist  home,  eyed  each 
other  gravely  and  addressed  each  other  in  whispers. 
The  dead  man  could  not  hear,  yet  they  spoke  in 


222  GARGOYLES 

whispers.  Even  the  most  renowned  of  the  dignitaries 
whose  lives  were  a  round  of  formalities  almost  as 
impressive  as  this,  spoke  in  whispers  and  seemed  ill 
at  ease. 

They  drifted  about  like  nervous  butlers  and  took 
up  positions  against  the  walls,  striking  uncertain  at- 
titudes. They  exchanged  polite  and  sober  greetings 
and  felt  slightly  strengthened  in  spirit  at  the  sight  of 
people  as  distinguished  as  themselves.  The  camara- 
derie of  prestige — the  social  caress  which  celebrities 
alone  are  able  to  bestow  upon  each  other  by  basking 
in  a  mutual  feeling  of  superiority — ran  like  an  under- 
current through  the  scene. 

Yet  this  camaraderie  which  usually  heightened  the 
poise  of  such  gatherings  was  unable  to  remove  the 
embarrassment  of  the  company.  They  spoke  in  whis- 
pers and  remained  outsiders,  as  if  the  Gilchrists  were 
a  family  of  intimidating  superiors  in  whose  presence 
one  didn't  quite  know  what  to  do  with  one's  arms  or 
feet  or  what  to  say  or  just  how  to  make  one's  features 
look. 

The  intimidating  superiority  was  the  body  under 
the  glass  cover  of  the  coffin.  It  would  have  been  easier 
in  a  church.  Funerals  were  much  less  of  a  strain  in 
a  church  and  there  were  several  whispers  to  this 
effect.  Why  had  Mrs.  Gilchrist  insisted  upon  a  home 
funeral?  Wasn't  it  rather  old  fashioned? 

Here  in  a  house  death  seemed  uncomfortably  per- 
sonal. The  stage  was  too  small  and  the  mourners 
were  too  near  something.  A  curious  sympathy  that 
had  nothing  to  do  with  Mr.  Gilchrist  took  possession 
of  them. 

The  damp,  sweet  odor  of  the  flowers,  the  glimpse 
of  the  black  coffin,  the  sound  of  softly  moving  feet 


GARGOYLES  223 

and  whispering  tongues  were  a  distressing  ensemble. 
The  mourners  drifted  around  and  nodded  nervously 
at  each  other  as  if  they  were  doing  all  they  could  to 
make  the  best  of  a  faux  pas.  Death  was  a  faux  pas. 
A  reality  without  adjectives.  A  stark,  mannerless  lie. 
The  family  had  done  its  best  also.  Flowers  had  been 
heaped,  furniture  arranged,  the  body  dressed,  a  lux- 
urious coffin  purchased,  great  people  invited.  Never- 
theless' the  waxen-faced  one  under  the  glass  cover 
refused  to  yield  its  reality.  It  lay  stark  and  manner- 
less in  the  large  room — the  immemorial  skeleton  at 
the  feast — repeating  the  dreadful  word  "death"  with 
an  almost  humorous  persistency  amid  the  heaped  flow- 
ers, the  carved  furniture,  the  mourners  with  raised 
eyebrows.  They  stood  about  nervously. 

Gilchrist  had  been  a  man  alive,  one  of  those  whose 
names  were  known  to  the  world.  The  name  Gilchrist 
had  meant  a  large  building  stored  with  rugs,  period 
furniture;  innumerable  clerks,  departments,  delivery 
trucks,  advertisements  in  newspapers  and  on  fences. 
The  man  Gilchrist  had  been  one  with  whom  the  dig- 
nitaries of  the  city  had  shared  the  intimacy  of  prestige. 

They  had  said  Gilchrist's  was  a  fine  store,  Gilchrist's 
was  marvelous  furniture,  Gilchrist  was  a  highly  suc- 
cessful business  man.  Gilchrist  was  this  and  that  and 
the  other.  And  here  lay  Gilchrist,  waxen  and  unscrup- 
ulously silent,  under  a  glass  cover — a  little  man  with 
pale  sideburns  that  were  now  doubly  useless,  in  a 
black  suit  and  his  hands  folded  over  his  chest.  Here 
lay  Gilchrist  dead,  and  yet  the  things  that  had  been 
called  Gilchrist  still  lived.  As  if  immortality  was  an 
artifice,  superior  to  life.  The  furniture  store,  the 
furniture,  the  clerks,  trucks,  advertisements,  the  highly 
successful  business — all  these  still  lived.  And  this  was 


224  GARGOYLES 

an  uncomfortable  fact.    It  embarrassed  the  mourners. 
They  drifted  about  with  uncertainty. 

Like  Gilchrist  they  were  men  and  women  whose 
names  were  synonymous  with  great  activities.  Like 
Gilchrist,  they  were  considered  as  the  inspiration  of 
these  activities.  In  fact  the  activities  were  an  arti- 
ficial symbol  of  themselves — a  sort  of  photograph  of 
themselves.  Yet  like  Gilchrist,  all  of  them  would  lie 
under  a  glass  cover  some  day  and  nothing  would  be 
changed.  The  actitivies  that  everybody  called  by  their 
names  would  still  live.  As  if  they  had  had  nothing  to 
do  with  them.  As  if  these  symbols  were  the  life  of 
the  city  and  not  the  men  and  women  whom  they  sym- 
bolized. Yes,  as  if  these  activities  which  represented 
their  prestige  were  independent  individualities — 
masks  which  loaned  themselves  for  a  few  years  to 
them  to  wear.  And  which  they  took  off  when  they 
lay  stretched  under  a  glass  cover.  Which  they  would 
take  off  and  become  anonymous. 

For  who  was  this  waxen-faced  man  in  the  coffin? 
Nobody  knew.  They  had  called  him  Gilchrist.  But 
Gilchrist  was  clerks,  advertisements,  furniture,  and 
business.  This  man  in  the  coffin  was  someone  else, 
an  irritating  impostor  that  reminded  them  they  were 
all  impostors.  Death  was  a  confession  everyone  must 
make;  an  incongruous  confession.  An  ending  to  some- 
thing that  had  no  ending.  Life  and  its  activities,  even 
the  activities  that  bore  the  name  Gilchrist,  went  on. 
Yet  Gilchrist  had,  mysteriously,  come  to  an  end.  He 
lay  in  a  coffin  while  his  name  in  large  letters  talked 
to  other  names  in  the  advertisements  of  the  city. 

The  camaraderie  of  prestige  was  insufficient  to 
remove  this  embarrassment.  A  dead  man  under  a 
glass  cover  spoke  to  them  slyly.  Dinners,  even  very 


GARGOYLES  225 

formal  dinners  with  butlers;  cliques,  even  powerful 
cliques  wielding  financial  destinies;  ambitions,  board 
of  directors'  meetings,  investments  and  reinvestments, 
hopes  and  successes — ah,  these  were  deceptive  little 
excitements  that  were  not  a  part  of  life — but  an  arti- 
fice superior  to  life.  For  life  ended  and  the  little 
excitements  went  on.  They  were  the  surface  immor- 
tality in  which  one  conveniently  forgot  the  underlying 
fact  of  death. 

Alas,  death.  Alas,  waxen-faced  men  lying  silent 
and  mannerless  under  glass  covers.  A  distasteful 
faux  pas,  death.  Yet  some  of  the  company  must 
weep.  Not  friends  who  regretted  the  everlasting 
absence  of  William  Gilchrist,  but  men  and  women  be- 
wildered for  a  moment  by  the  memory  of  their  own 
death.  Death  was  a  memory  since  it  existed  like  a 
foregone  conclusion.  It  was  sad  to  think  of  all  the 
people  who  had  died,  laughing  ones,  famous  ones, 
adventurous  ones  whose  laughter,  fame  and  adventure 
seemed  somehow  a  lie  now  that  they  were  dead. 

It  was  so  easy  to  be  dead.  Death  had  come  to  all 
who  had  been,  even  to  more  dignified  and  celebrated 
ones  than  they.  Alas,  death.  The  sober  men  and 
women  in  the  Gilchrist  home  drifted  about  nervously. 
They  must  weep  because  for  the  moment  they  lay  in 
the  coffin  with  Mr.  Gilchrist  and  because  for  the 
moment  they  walked  sadly  about  mourning  visions 
of  their  own  deaths.  And  for  the  moment  their  tears 
earned  for  themselves  the  regard  of  their  fellow 
mourners  as  kind-hearted,  sensitive,  unselfish  souls. 

Yet  there  was  something  intimate  among  the  com- 
pany. Despite  the  embarrassment,  a  curious  spirit  of 
friendliness  underlay  the  scene.  Men  and  women  who 
knew  each  other  only  as  aloof  symbols  of  prestige, 


226  GARGOYLES 

stood  together  and  talked  in  whispers  as  if  they  were 
talking  out  of  character.  Half  strangers  felt  a  famil- 
iarity toward  each  other. 

Under  the  stamp  of  a  common  emotion  and  a 
common  embarrassment,  the  company  became  for  the 
time  a  collection  of  intimates,  looking  at  one  another 
and  whispering  among  themselves  as  if  the  event  were 
a  truce.  This  was  a  funeral.  Here  was  reality.  And 
it  was  polite  to  lay  aside  for  an  hour  the  masks,  the 
complexities  of  artifice  by  which  they  baffled  and  im- 
pressed each  other. 

The  Reverend  Henry  Peyton  had  arrived  and  the 
mourners  moved  into  the  spacious  library,  grateful 
for  a  destination.  The  widow  in  black  with  her  son 
and  daughter-in-law  appeared.  The  company  surveyed 
them  with  a  thrill  of  vicarious  grief.  Poor  Mrs. 
Gilchrist,  so  strong  and  competent !  It  seemed  almost 
impossible  that  she  should  lose  anything,  even  some- 
thing as  mortal  as  a  husband.  She  was  so  fixed  and 
determined.  Even  now  there  was  something  sternly 
competent  about  her  grief.  It  was  hidden  under  a 
black  veil.  There  was  nothing  to  be  seen  of  it  but  a 
black  veil  and  a  black  dress  and  a  pair  of  wrinkled 
little  hands  fumbling  with  themselves.  Poor  Mrs. 
Gilchrist.  People  had  forgotten  she  was  a  woman. 
They  felt  slightly  ashamed  as  they  glanced  at  her 
now,  as  if  they  were  intruding  upon  a  secret.  But 
she  had  invited  them. 

A  suppressed  "Ah!"  of  sympathy  murmured 
through  the  room.  The  minister's  words  began  and 
a  determined  hush  followed. 

Basine  sitting  in  a  corner  of  the  room  with  his 
mother  had  spent  an  uncomfortable  hour  waiting  for 
the  services.  He  had  looked  at  the  body  and  come 


GARGOYLES  227 

away  depressed.  His  quick  eyes  had  observed  the 
company  and  noted  with  a  concealed  smile  the  manner 
in  which  lesser  dignitaries  were  making  hay  while  the 
tears  poured.  They  were  utilizing  the  camaraderie 
of  prestige  and  the  intimacy  of  a  common  emotion  to 
impress  themselves  upon  the  greater  dignitaries. 
Women  of  dubious  social  standing  gravitated  as  if  by 
general  accident  toward  women  of  solid  social  stand- 
ing and  exchanged  whispered  condolences  with  them. 
Men  of  lesser  financial  ratings  were  edging  toward 
leaders  of  finance  and  engaging  them  in  dolorous  con- 
versations. 

Under  the  depression  and  gentle  bewilderment,  the 
everlasting  business  of  inferior  pursuing  superior  and 
superior  increasing  his  superiority  by  resisting  pursuit, 
was  going  on.  The  death  of  poor  Gilchrist  seemed 
to  Basine,  for  a  few  minutes,  chiefly  important  as  an 
opportunity  by  which  lesser  mourners  were  introduc- 
ing themselves  to  the  attention  of  greater  mourners. 

Basine's  eyes  noticed  another  undercurrent.  He 
had  himself  influenced  Fanny  to  prevail  upon  Mrs. 
Gilchrist  to  invite  a  number  of  politicians  to  the 
funeral.  He  had  furnished  the  names  carefully,  telling 
Fanny  that  these  were  men  high  in  power  who  had 
been  friends  of  Mr.  Gilchrist.  The  widow,  through 
her  secretary,  had  asked  ten  of  the  list  to  honor  her 
husband's  funeral  with  their  presence.  She  had 
chosen  ten  names  most  familiar  to  her,  among  them 
men  of  wealth  who  were  renowned  as  powers  behind 
the  various  political  thrones  of  the  day.  The  invita- 
tions had  served  Basine  to  make  a  slight  but  important 
impression  upon  the  political  party  leaders. 

He  had  at  first  felt  nervous  over  Mrs.  Gilchrist' s 
selections  from  his  list.  She  had  picked  ten  men,  most 


228  GARGOYLES 

of  whom  were  engaged  in  tenacious  political  antagon- 
isms. He  watched  now  with  surprise  as  the  antagon- 
ists gravitated  together  forming,  with  a  number  of 
financiers,  an  amiable,  dignified  group. 

uln  the  presence  of  death  they  feel  inclined  to  bury 
the  hatchet,"  he  thought  and  the  idea  of  large 
funerals  as  an  asset  for  establishing  political  harmony 
developed  in  his  mind. 

He  noticed  a  change  in  his  own  attitude  toward 
Aubrey.  He  had  felt  for  years  a  distaste  for  the  man 
and  although  their  relations  had  always  been  amicable, 
this  distaste  had  increased  to  a  point  where  Basine 
would  have  felt  a  relief  at  the  man's  death.  He 
could  never  tell  himself  why  he  disliked  Aubrey.  But 
the  aversion  was  of  long  standing.  "I  don't  like  his 
looks,"  he  would  grin  to  himself. 

Now,  watching  him  take  his  seat  beside  his  mother, 
Aubrey  became  somehow  human  and  Basine  felt  he 
understood  the  man  for  the  first  time.  Beneath 
people  whose  looks  you  didn't  like  was  always  some- 
thing human.  People  were  all  alike,  no  matter  how 
they  strutted  or  posed.  Underneath  was  a  loneliness 
— a  little  crippled  likeness  of  themselves — that  they 
carried  about  with  them  all  the  time.  Basine  would 
have  liked  to  talk  to  him  and  say  something  like, 
"Sorry,  old  man.  I  didn't  know.  I'm  sorry  ..." 

The  minister  had  begun.  He  stood  beside  the 
coffin  that  had  been  brought  in.  His  opening  words 
startled  Basine.  A  prayer!  There  was  something 
fantastic  in  the  spectacle  of  this  living  man  standing 
beside  the  dead  man  and  talking  aloud  to  someone 
who  was  not  in  the  room.  Talking  solemnly,  intensely 
to  God.  As  if  he  had  buttonholed  Him. 

Basine  felt  irritated  by  his  own  emotions.    His  face 


GARGOYLES  229 

assumed  a  devout  air  but  the  emotions  and  the 
thoughts  which  rose  from  them  persisted  behind  his 
determined  piety.  He  wanted  to  immerse  himself  in 
the  spirit  of  the  man  praying.  But  his  eyes  played 
truant.  They  wandered  furtively  and  observed  with 
uncomfortable  precision  the  bowed  head  of  Henrietta 
and  the  spring  hat  on  her  head  and  the  heavy-jowled 
face  of  her  father,  belligerently  reverent  beside  her. 

The  minister's  voice  shouted.  "God  in  Heaven 
...  his  heavenly  soul  ...  his  heavenly  reward.  .  .  " 

Phrases  like  these  detached  themselves  and  lingered 
in  Basine's  ears.  He  had  heard  them  frequently  in 
church.  But  for  the  moment  they  seemed  preposter- 
ously new.  He  found  himself  listening  in  surprise. 
Religion  had  been  always  an  accepted  idea  to  him. 
Something  you  believed  in  as  you  believed  in  the  neces- 
sity of  neckties.  But  though  he  accepted  it  and  felt  a 
casual  faith  in  an  Episcopalian  God,  it  remained  an 
idea  apart  from  reality.  He  had  never  given  either 
thought  or  emotion  to  religion.  Yet  he  had  frequent- 
ly expended  a  great  deal  of  mental  effort  and  emotion 
denouncing  people  whom  he  sensed  or  observed  were 
opposed  to  religion. 

It  struck  him  now  as  a  childish  farce — -an  absurd 
hocus-pocus.  Poor  Gilchrist  going  to  heaven  and  a 
long-faced  man  in  a  black  coat  speeding  his  soul 
heavenward  from  the  Gilchrist  library!  If  there  was 
a  God,  for  whom  was  all  this  necessary — the  flowers, 
speeches,  prayers  ?  Not  for  God.  But  for  the  people 
in  the  room,  of  course.  People  crowded  in  a  tiny 
room  taking  this  opportunity  to  assure  each  other 
that  the  immensities  over  their  heads,  the  clouds,  stars 
and  spaces  were  their  property. 

His  iconoclasm  increased  as  if  inspired  by  the  length 


230  GARGOYLES 

of  the  minister's  harangue.  He  grew  angry  with  him- 
self and  thought  of  Doris  and  immediately  transferred 
his  anger  to  her.  It  was  she  who  was  deriding  the 
solemnity  of  the  scene.  He  had  been  paying  too 
much  attention  to  her  almost  insane  chatter  and  things 
were  somewhat  undermined  in  his  own  soul.  Her 
fault. 

The  prayer  ended  and  four  men  came  forward  and 
began  to  sing.  Their  voices,  raised  in  a  hymn, 
annoyed  him  instantly.  This  was  too  much.  What 
were  they  singing  for?  As  if  their  songs  would  help 
poor  Gilchrist  mount  from  the  library  into  heaven. 
The  entire  scene,  the  bowed  heads,  sad  faces,  elaborate 
coffin;  the  flowers,  the  worthy  reverend  and  the 
singers  came  to  his  mind  as  something  terribly  uncon- 
vincing. Futile,  that  was  it.  Children  making  an 
unconvincing  pretense. 

He  tried  to  blot  out  his  thinking  and  fastened  his 
will  upon  thoughts  that  might  make  him  sad,  properly 
sad  and  believing.  What  if  Henrietta  should  die  ... 
Henrietta  dead.  Henrietta  gone  forever.  He  seized 
the  thought  eagerly.  It  was  not  what  he  wanted  but 
there  was  a  relish  in  thinking  it.  Sad  .  .  .  sad  .  .  .  yes, 
if  his  mother  should  die  or  somebody  dear  to  him. 
Who?  Ruth.  Ah,  what  if  it  were  Ruth  in  the  coffin. 
Instead  of  anybody  else.  He  would  feel  differently 
then.  Her  beautiful  face  white  as  Gilchrist's  and  her 
arms  still.  Her  fingers  rigid.  Ruth  dead  .  .  . 

This  made  him  sad  but  it  took  his  mind  entirely 
from  the  scene.  He  forgot  for  moments  that  Gil- 
christ was  dead  and  this  was  a  funeral.  The  reality 
returned,  however,  with  an  increased  vividness  to  its 
absurdity.  The  music  of  the  hymn  rose  with  em- 
barrassing frankness  .  .  .  Poor  litde  people  gathered 


GARGOYLES  231 

in  a  room  going  through  a  hocus-pocus  to  convince 
themselves  that  there  was  a  heaven  where  they  would 
live  forever  after  the  misfortune  of  death.  Like 
children  playing  with  dolls  and  pretending.  .  .  .  But 
how  did  he  happen  to  be  thinking  like  that?  Did  he 
believe  there  was  no  God,  no  heaven,  no  after  life? 

No,  he  believed  in  all  that  firmly.  Of  course,  one 
must  believe.  The  self-questioning  had  shocked  him 
back  into  a  state  of  grace.  Yes,  he  believed  firmly 
and  bowed  his  head  to  the  hymn  that  was  ending. 

During  the  rest  of  the  services  he  was  inwardly 
silent.  The  scene  appeared  to  have  slipped  into  focus 
again.  The  minister  seemed  no  longer  a  symbol  of 
some  childish  hocus-pocus  but  an  ambassador  of  God 
— a  stern  man,  closely  in  touch  with  the  Mysteries. 
And  there  was  something  awesome  in  the  room. 
There  was  something  awesome  about  the  coffin  and 
the  flowers  and  the  voices  of  the  singers  trailing  into 
an  Amen.  It  was  God.  Yes,  a  great  all  powerful 
Being  to  whose  hands  mankind  returned. 

The  discomfort  of  doubt  left  Basine  and  he  felt 
himself  again  an  integral  part  of  something  vaster 
than  himself.  His  thought  re-entered  the  idea  of 
religion  and  a  sense  of  peace  filled  him.  He  said 
Amen  twice  and  looked  with  mute,  believing  eyes  at 
the  black  coffin. 

The  mourners  were  following  the  six  silk-hatted  pall 
bearers  into  the  street.  A  drizzle  over  the  pavements. 
A  long  line  of  motors,  chauffeurs  waiting,  looking  as 
aloof  and  aristocratic  in  their  servitude  as  their 
employers. 

Basine  found  himself  beside  Milton  Ware,  one  of 
the  big  traction  officials  of  the  city.  A  grey-haired 
man  with  a  well-preserved  face  stamped  with  cer- 


232  GARGOYLES 

tainties  and  stern  affabilities.  Basine  thought  casually 
that  Ware  had  seemed  rather  friendly.  He  had  come 
over  to  exchange  remarks  several  times  while  waiting 
for  the  services  to  begin.  On  the  curb  Basine  looked 
around  for  Henrietta.  Judge  Smith  had  brought  his 
machine  and  they  were  to  drive  to  the  cemetery 
together. 

"Are  you  with  anyone?"  Ware  asked  quietly. 

"Yes,  I'm  looking  for  my  party,"  Basine  answered. 
He  spied  the  judge  and  Henrietta  crowded  into  their 
car.  Several  others  had  entered  with  them.  Ware 
followed  his  eye. 

"That  looks  rather  full,"  he  suggested.  "If  you 
don't  mind,  would  you  take  a  place  in  my  machine." 

Basine  nodded.  "Thank  you.  I'll  just  talk  to 
them  a  minute  then." 

He  returned  from  his  father-in-law's  automobile 
and  entered  with  Ware.  The  chauffeur  started  off 
and  Basine  leaned  back  in  his  seat.  He  wondered  at 
Ware's  hospitality.  The  man  was  one  of  the  out- 
standing powers  of  the  city,  incredibly  ramified 
through  banks  and  corporations  and  public  utilities. 
He  wondered  what  his  connection  with  Gilchrist  had 
been.  The  traction  baron — a  title  given  him  by  the 
newspapers — sat  in  silence  beside  him  as  the  proces- 
sion got  under  way.  Basine's  curiosity  began  to 
answer  itself.  He  found  himself  vaguely  on  his 
guard. 

"I  hadn't  intended  going  to  the  cemetery,"  Ware 
announced  after  they  had  been  riding  a  few  minutes. 
"I  don't  believe  much  in  such  demonstrations." 

"Neither  do  I,"  Basine  answered.  He  was  wonder- 
ing if  it  were  possible  to  escape  his  duty  to  the  family. 


GARGOYLES  233 

There  was  such  a  crowd  he  might  not  be  missed  at 
the  grave. 

"Would  you  mind  if  we  turned  out  at  one  of  these 
streets  and  drove  to  the  club/'  Ware  asked  deferen- 
tially. $!J 

Basine  hesitated.  He  had  noticed  the  invitation  in 
the  remark.  Ware,  whom,  he  had  only  met  once 
before,  was  inviting  him  to  the  club.  Why?  A  desire 
to  attach  himself  to  Ware  abruptly  edited  his  doubts 
concerning  the  propriety  of  his  absence. 

"I'd  just  as  soon,"  he  answered.  The  chauffeur 
was  given  directions.  The  remainder  of  the  ride  was 
passed  in  silence. 

"I  thought  we  might  have  lunch  here,"  Ware 
explained  as  they  seated  themselves  in  front  of  a 
window  overlooking  the  boulevard.  It  was  raining. 
The  empty  street  gleamed  and  darkened  with  rain. 

"Most  of  the  forenoon  is  gone  anyway,"  Ware 
added.  "Have  you  an  engagement?" 

"Thanks,  I  haven't,"  Basine  answered.  They  sat 
sipping  at  highballs  a  servant  had  brought.  Basine 
watched  the  rain  and  a  figure  scurrying  past  below 
the  window.  About  this  time  they  were  lowering 
Gilchrist  into  the  ground.  No  one  would  ever  see  his 
face  again. 

"Pretty  sad  about  Gilchrist,"  Ware  murmured  as 
if  aware  of  his  thought. 

Basine's  attention  returned  to  the  traction  baron. 
The  man  wanted  something.  Or  why  should  he  seek 
him  out?  An  anger  came  into  his  mind.  Who  was 
this  man  Ware  that  he  could  pick  him  up  and  cart 
him  to  a  club  and  buy  him  a  highball — and  expect  to 
impress  him,  Basine?  And  for  what  reason?  The 
man  wanted  something. 


234  GARGOYLES 

The  idea  had  become  a  conviction.  He  sensed  it 
now  through  the  memories  of  the  morning.  Ware 
had  led  up  to  it  dexterously.  A  nod  at  first.  Later 
a  few  remarks  about  the  weather.  Finally  an  invita- 
tion to  ride  with  him  to  the  cemetery.  Ware  had 
never  intended  going  there.  That  had  been  a  ruse 
to — kidnap  him.  Basine  frowned.  Well,  he  was 
kidnapped.  And  he  would  find  out  why.  Find  out 
directly. 

Ware  was  looking  at  him  with  a  smile.  Basine 
saw  something  in  the  smile  that  increased  his  anger. 
A  sudden  wave  of  emotion,  as  if  he  were  going  to 
strike  the  man,  propelled  his  thoughts  out  of  him. 
He  heard  himself  talking  in  a  precise,  indignant  voice 
and  regretted  it  at  once.  But  the  words  continued: 

"You're  a  rather  busy  man,  Mr.  Ware.  And  so 
am  I.  What  did  you  want  to  ask  me?" 

Ware  nodded  slowly  and  thrust  out  his  lower  lip. 

"Exactly,"  he  murmured.  "I  wanted  to  speak  to 
you  about  something." 

"Well  .  .  ."  He  paused  on  the  word  but  Ware 
remained  silent.  He  would  have  liked  to  out-silence 
the  traction  official  but  after  a  pause,  a  nervousness 
possessed  him.  "Well,  let's  begin  now,"  he  said. 
"What  is  it  you  want?" 

He  felt  the  crudity  of  his  question  and  winced 
inwardly.  But  ...  the  thing  was  said.  He  would 
fellow  through  in  that  tone,  then.  He  tightened  his 
features  and  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  his  eyes  deliber- 
ately on  the  face  of  his  host.  He  had  embarrassed 
Ware.  He  could  sense  that  through  the  man's  poise. 
His  poise  was  only  a  stall.  Well  and  good.  There 
was  nothing  for  him,  Basine,  to  be  embarrassed  about. 


GARGOYLES  235 

He  felt  elated  after  all  with  the  way  he  had  handled 
the  thing. 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  a  rather  delicate 
matter,"  Ware  began.  Basine  nodded.  He  held  the 
trumps.  He  had  only  to  sit  back  and  this  traction 
baron  would  begin  to  mumble,  his  celebrated  poise 
would  begin  to  disintegrate. 

"I'll  be  as  direct  as  you,  Judge,"  he  continued.  "I 
see  that  you  don't  like  beating  around  the  bush. 
Neither  do  I.  But  I  didn't  know.  As  I  said,  the  thing 
is  a  rather  delicate  matter  and  I  want  you  to  take  my 
word  for  it,  that  whatever  you  say  in  way  of  reply 
will  in  no  way  change  my  opinion  of  you.  It's  a 
thing  to  be  said  and  then  forgotten,  if  necessary,  by 
both  of  us.  Do  you  agree? 

Basine  nodded. 

"It's  about  the  Hill  case,"  Ware  lowered  his  voice. 

"The  Hill  case?"  Basine  stared. 

"On  your  calendar,  Judge.  The  violinst  suing  for 
$50,000.  Hurt  by  falling  off  a  street  car.  I  thought 
you  knew  the  case." 

"I  remember  it  now,  Mr.  Ware." 

"Well,  the  man  hasn't  a  case  at  all.  But  it's  a  jury 
trial  and,  of  course,  juries  sometimes  think  out  things 
in  an  odd  way.  Now  what  I'm  getting  at  is  this. 
This  particular  suit  doesn't  disturb  us  much.  But  the 
anti-traction  press  is  going  to  give  it  a  great  deal  of 
publicity.  And  what  we're  interested  in  is  the  effect 
of  the  suit.  You  understand?  The  town  is  full  of 
cranks  and  schemers  always  trying  to  get  rich  by 
suing  some  big  utility  corporation.  And  if  this  man 
Hill  wins  his  case,  why  it'll  mean  another  hundred 
cases  all  as  preposterous  as  his  on  our  hands.  Do  you 
follow  me  ? 


236  GARGOYLES 

Basine  nodded. 

"I  told  you  it  was  a  rather  delicate  subject,"  Ware 
smiled.  "And  I  would  never  have  thought  of  broach- 
ing it  if  I  wasn't  sure  you  would  look  at  it  in  the  light 
it's  offered,  you  understand?  I  don't  mean  I'm  asking 
a  judge  to  do  anything  outside  the  facts  or  to  go  out 
of  his  way  to  hand  us  anything.  That's  dishonest  and 
absurd.  The  thing  is,  as  you'll  see  for  yourself  when 
the  case  starts,  that  this  man  Hill  is  an  impostor  trying 
to  hold  us  up.  We'll  prove  that  to  your  entire  satis- 
faction. What  I'm  getting  at  is  that  there's  the  jury 
and  you  know  the  attitude  of  juries  these  days  toward 
corporations.  They  hold  against  us  regardless  of 
evidence.  Now  what  I'm  after  is  to  see  we  get  a  fair 
trial  and  it  lies  in  your  province  to  help  us." 

Basine  leaned  forward  and  spoke  with  difficulty. 
His  anger  had  grown  in  him. 

uWhat  is  it  you  want  me  to  do?"  he  asked. 
Ware  smiled  disarmingly. 

"Nothing  at  all,  Judge,  that  you  wouldn't  have 
done  of  your  own  volition.  I  want  you,  if  you  are 
convinced  such  a  course  is  a  just  one,  to  take  the  case 
from  the  jury  and  throw  it  out  of  court.  Now,  wait 
a  minute.  I  see  you're  angry  and,  as  I  said,  the 
matter  in  a  way  is  rather  delicate  to  talk  about.  But 
come,  I'll  say  frankly,  I'm  interested  in  you.  We 
need  men  like  you.  Quick,  intelligent  and  able  to  see 
their  way.  The  progress  of  the  city  depends  upon 
such  men.  You  know  Jennings?" 
"Your  attorney." 

"Yes,  in  full  charge  of  our  legal  department. 
There's  another  case  for  you  of  an  intelligent,  quick- 
witted man,  scrupulously  honest  but  not  an  ass.  Six 


GARGOYLES  237 

years  ago  Jennings  was  a  judge  on  the  municipal 
bench.  Wasted  .  .  .  utterly  wasted  .  .  .  today — " 

Basine  interrupted,  his  voice  harshened. 

"An  analogy.     I  see.    Thanks." 

He  stood  up.    Ware  reached  out  his  hand. 

"I  don't  think  you  quite  understand  me,"  he  mur- 
mured. 

"Perfectly,"  Basine  answered.  "And  I've  given  my 
word  that  whatever  I  understood  would  be  for- 
gotten.'" 

Words  welled  into  Basine's  mind.  An  almost  un- 
controllable impulse  to  confound  his  host  with  a 
violent  denunciation  struggled  in  him.  He  would  tell 
this  traction  baron  what  manner  of  man  he,  Basine, 
was.  And  what  the  dignity  of  his  position  as  judge 
was.  He  would  throw  the  bribe  back  into  the  man's 
teeth.  He  would  declaim.  Virtue.  Outrage.  Crea- 
tures who  sought  to  use  their  power  to  influence 
justice.  Who  thought  themselves  able  to  drag  men 
of  honor  to  their  level  by  the  promise  of  favors. 

Basine  remained  silent.  His  eyes,  grown  lustrous, 
stared  at  Ware.  Careful,  he  must  be  careful  not  to 
protest  too  violently.  That  would  sound  as  if  he 
were  uncertain.  No  protest  at  all.  A  contemptuous 
silence.  That  was  more  effective.  The  sort  of  thing 
Ware  would  understand,  too.  And  remember.  With 
a  deep  breath  that  sent  a  tremor  through  his  body, 
he  nodded. 

"Good  day,"  he  said  and  turning  his  back  abruptly, 
walked  out  of  the  club.  He  frowned  at  the  unctuous 
bell  boys  and  doorman. 

Still  raining.  Basine  walked  swiftly,  unaware  of 
destination.  His  mind  was  filled  with  emotions.  In- 
dignation grew  in  him.  Ware  had  offered  a  bribe. 


238  GARGOYLES 

There  was  something  in  the  thing  that  slowly  infuri- 
ated him.  It  was  an  affront,  an  attempt  at  domination. 
The  man  had  said,  "I'm  better  than  you.  I  can 
bribe  you  to  do  what  I  want."  His  spirit  revolted. 
So  that  was  the  way  to  power,  eh?  Listening  to 
reason  when  the  big  wigs  spoke?  Well,  they  could 
go  on  speaking  till  doomsday.  But  they  couldn't  talk 
to  him  like  that  .  .  .  and  get  away  with  it. 

The  anger  slipped  from  him.  He  had  refused.  An 
elation  halted  him.  He  was  an  honest  man!  The 
fact  surprised  him.  He  stared  with  pride  at  the 
street.  The  street  held  an  honest  man,  a  man  able 
to  say  uno"  to  temptation. 

A  tardy  appreciation  of  his  righteousness  over- 
powered him.  He  had  something  inside  him  now 
like  a  new  strength.  He  could  look  at  men  anywhere, 
anytime,  and  let  his  eyes  tell  them  who  he  was  and 
what  sort  of  man  he  was.  Because  he  was  sure  of  it 
himself.  He  was  an  honest  man,  and  sure  of  it. 

It  was  not  only  inside  him,  this  certainty,  but  he  felt 
it  like  a  mantle  over  his  shoulders.  He  walked  on 
with  a  vigorous  step.  An  unshaven  face  paused  before 
him  and  a  beggar  mumbled  for  a  coin.  Basine  stopped 
full.  He  stopped  with  deliberation  and  stared  at  the 
unshaven  face,  at  the  shifty  eyes  and  dirty  linen. 
The  beggar  repeated  his  furtive  mumble. 

"No,"  Basine  answered  clearly.  His  voice  was 
sharp.  The  man  appeared  to  wince.  He  slid  away 
in  the  rain,  his  head  down. 

Basine  walked  on  with  an  increased  elation.  He 
had  never  been  able  to  do  that  before,  say  "no" 
decisively  to  a  beggar.  He  had  usually  said  "no",  but 
hurriedly,  furtively.  That  was  because  he  was  un- 
certain of  himself.  Now  he  could  say  "no"  or  "yes" 


GARGOYLES  239 

to  anyone  with  decision.  He  had  refused  a  bribe 
and  was  an  honest  man  and  did  not  have  to  concern 
himself  with  what  others  might  think  of  what  he 
said,  because  of  this  conviction  in  him  and  because  of 
this  mantle  in  which  he  was  wrapped. 

He  walked  in  the  direction  of  the  County  Building. 
The  rain  felt  fresh.  It  was  a  moral  rain,  a  virtuous 
comrade. 

The  incident  in  the  club  had,  in  fact,  given  Basine 
a  character.  He  had  been  unaware  of  his  motives 
from  the  moment  a  sense  of  impending  events  had 
come  to  him  in  the  traction  official's  automobile.  He 
had,  when  the  bribe  came,  acted  as  if  following  a  life- 
long code  of  ethics.  Yet  he  had  surprised  himself. 
His  anger,  his  violent  emotion  of  righteousness  had 
been  inexplicable  to  him.  He  had  never  felt  anything 
like  that  before. 

Basine,  in  the  car,  had  become  aware  vaguely  of 
what  awaited  him.  He  had  recalled  and  repressed 
the  recollection  instantly,  the  Hill  case  pending  trial 
before  him.  And  under  the  surface  of  his  thought  the 
entire  drama  of  the  bribe  had  enacted  itself  in  ad- 
vance. Ware  would  offer  him  something.  Yes,  and 
Ware  was  a  man  to  know,  one  who  could  be  of  vital 
use  in  his  climb.  If  Ware  asked  him  to  do  some- 
thing it  would  be  wise  to  do  it.  He  had  been  eager 
for  the  interview  and  a  part  of  his  eagerness  had 
been  a  desire  to  grant  the  traction  baron  the  favor  he 
was  going  to  ask. 

But  the  incident  had  come  during  a  curious  crisis 
in  Basine's  life,  a  crisis  that  had  piled  up  since  his 
youth.  A  consciousness  had  been  growing  in  him  of 
his  duplicity.  He  had  been  aware  of  it,  but  in  a  dif- 
ferent way,  during  his  youth  and  the  early  years  of 


240  GARGOYLES 

his  marriage.  It  had  not  made  him  uncomfortable 
then.  He  had  been  able  to  lie  with  a  clear  conscience. 
Ruses  by  which  he  established  himself  in  the  eyes  of 
others,  not  as  he  was  but  as  he  desired  them  to  think 
him,  had  seemed  to  him  then  the  product  of  a  prac- 
tical, superior  nature. 

Slowly,  however,  his  poise  in  the  face  of  his  own 
duplicities  had  begun  to  crumble.  He  had  begun  to 
feel  himself  filled  with  the  uncertainties  of  a  man 
forced  to  conceal  too  many  things  from  himself. 
Fitting  his  hypocricies  and  lies  into  worthy  necessities 
had  become  too  complex  a  business,  demanding  too 
much  of  his  energies. 

The  inner  situation  in  which  Basine  found  himself 
as  he  matured  had  in  no  way  changed  his  nature.  He 
had  gone  ahead  as  always,  stumbling  finally  into  a 
climax  of  deceits  in  his  relation  with  the  young  woman 
he  had  hired  as  his  secretary. 

In  the  five  months  she  had  worked  for  him  he  had 
been  in  love  with  her  but  had  managed  to  withhold 
the  fact  from  both  of  them.  He  had  invented  ex- 
haustless  explanations  for  his  interest  in  her,  for  his 
desire  to  be  near  her,  for  the  increased  aversion  that 
had  grown  in  him  toward  Henrietta  and  his  home. 

The  crisis  had  accumulated  and  reached  a  head 
during  the  services  in  the  Gilchrist  home.  Here  his 
pent-up  self-repugnance,  his  growing  impulse  to  expur- 
gate the  duplicities  of  his  life,  had  found  a  minor 
outlet  in  the  sudden  religious  faith  that  had  possessed 
him  after  his  half-hour  of  doubts.  Ware's  bribe  had 
come  opportunely.  Basine's  inexplicable  anger  on 
sensing  the  impending  bribe,  had  been  his  self  answer 
to  the  eager  desire  to  comply  that  had  struggled  to 
assert  itself  in  him. 


GARGOYLES  241 

And  when  the  man  had  begun  the  actual  words 
that  meant  bribe,  he  had  seized  on  the  situation  as  a 
vindication.  Opportunity  to  rehabilitate  himself,  to 
wipe  out  with  a  single  gesture  the  clutter  of  dis- 
honesties which  were  beginning  to  inconvenience  him. 
He  had  embraced  it  and  emerged  from  the  club  a  man, 
remade.  No  longer  an  inwardly  shifty  Basine  able 
to  rise  to  righteousness  only  by  avoiding  his  memories. 
But  a  Basine  with  a  platform  inside  him  on  which  he 
might  stand  fearlessly.  The  platform — I  am  honest. 
I  refused  a  bribe — had  erected  itself  over  the  complex 
memories  of  himself.  They  were  obliterated  now. 

He  entered  his  chambers  with  a  serious  happiness 
in  his  heart.  A  miracle  had  happened  and  he  had 
been  given  absolution — by  himself. 

16 

Ruth  Davis  was  at  her  desk.  She  looked  up  eagerly 
as  he  entered.  Basine,  hanging  up  his  coat  and  hat, 
felt  a  businesslike  desire  to  explain  matters  to  her. 
He  was  an  honest  man,  done  with  subterfuges. 

He  would  explain  to  her  that  it  was  no  longer 
possible  for  her  to  continue  in  his  employ.  Use  cor- 
rect but  kindly  words.  He  was  an  honest  man.  He 
wanted  to  impress  himself  and  everybody  else  with 
this  fact.  Even  Ruth.  He  had  no  thought  of  im- 
pressing it  on  Henrietta.  Henrietta  would  only  be 
surprised  to  hear  he  was  an  honest  man.  Because  she 
had  always  believed  it  anyway. 

But  he  would  like  to  tell  Ruth,  because  it  would 
raise  her  opinion  of  him;  fill  her  with  a  great  pride. 
A  sad  pride,  of  course,  since  it  meant  their  separation. 
But  she  would  go  away  loving  him  even  more  because 
of  his  honesty  that  had  put  an  end  to  his  love  for  her. 


242  GARGOYLES 

The  course,  however,  was  impossible.  It  involved 
a  ludicrous  situation.  Because  he  had  never  said  he 
loved  her  and  she  had  been  as  silent  as  he.  And  so 
telling  her  all  these  very  fine  things  would  make  it 
necessary  for  him  to  say  first,  "I  have  loved  you." 
And  then  to  add,  "But  I  don't  love  you  any  more.  I 
can't." 

It  was  two  o'clock.  Time  for  the  Judge  to  take 
his  place  on  the  bench.  Basine  arose  from  behind  his 
table  with  a  sense  of  anti-climax.  Nothing  had 
happened.  He  was  going  back  to  his  place  on  the 
bench  again.  Poor  Gilchrist  lay  hidden  forever  and 
Ware  had  tried  to  bribe  him  and  he  had  proven  him- 
self a  man  of  astounding  integrity.  And  he  had  over- 
come a  growing  infatuation  for  Ruth  Davis.  Yet 
nothing  had  happened. 

"Shall  I  retype  the  Friday  speech,  Judge?"  Ruth 
inquired  as  he  hesitated  before  her  desk.  He  looked 
at  her  as  if  it  were  difficult  to  focus  his  attention  on 
her.  He  was  preoccupied.  A  man  of  many  preoccu- 
pations who  found  it  hard?  to  notice  little  things 
around  him. 

"Oh  yes,  the  speech,"  he  agreed.  "Type  it.  And 
if  there  are  any  mistakes  change  them  to  suit  your- 
self." 

He  walked  out  of  chambers.  Ruth  turned  to  her 
typewriter  and  prepared  to  set  to  work.  But  as  the 
door  closed  behind  Basine  she  stopped.  She  removed 
a  small  mirror  from  a  drawer  and  studied  her  face 
in  it.  She  leaned  back  in  her  seat  and  sighed.  She 
felt  too  restless  to  work. 

With  her  white  brows  frowning,  she  sat  looking 
at  the  keys  of  her  machine.  A  miserable  restlessness, 
this  was,  that  never  went  away.  At  night  she  lay 


GARGOYLES  243 

awake  in  the  room  she  had  chosen  since  becoming 
financially  independent  of  her  family.  And  a  loneli- 
ness gnawed  in  her  heart.  It  was  because  she  loved 
him. 

uYes,  I  love  him,"  she  repeated  to  the  keys  of  her 
machine. 

He  was  not  like  other  men.  There  was  something 
intimidating  about  him.  He  had  never  spoken  to  her 
in  a  friendly  tone.  His  eyes  had  never  become  inti- 
mate. 

During  the  five  months  she  had  been  his  secretary 
he  had  kept  aloof.  A  strange,  unbending  man  con- 
sumed with  ambition.  His  ambition  was  an  awesome 
thing.  There  was  a  directness  to  it.  He  worked  day 
and  night,  always  planning  for  something.  His  en- 
gagements crowded  each  other.  She  hardly  knew 
the  man.  She  knew  only  an  ambition  that  kept  push- 
ing tirelessly  forward. 

There  had  been  no  talk  between  them  except  busi- 
ness talk.  And  yet,  somehow  he  had  given  himself  to 
her.  Despite  his  aloofness  and  the  sternness  of  his 
manner,  she  had  felt  herself  coming  close  to  him, 
closer  than  to  anybody  else  she  had  ever  known.  And 
men  were  no  exciting  novelty  to  her.  They  had  held 
her  hand  and  fumbled  around  with  ambiguous  words. 
They  talked  art,  politics,  women,  not  because  they 
were  interested  in  these  things  but  because  they 
wanted  you  to  be  interested  in  what  they  thought 
of  them.  She  had  kept  her  virginity  without  diffi- 
culty. The  half-world  of  art  and  jobs  enthused  her. 
But  it  did  not  stampede.  A  practical  side  of  her  re- 
mained dubious  about  the  groping  ones  she  met  in 
the  studios.  It  was  hard  to  pick  out  the  real  ones 
from  the  fourflushers.  She  had  discovered  this.  Be- 


244  GARGOYLES 

cause  the  real  ones  didn't  know  they  were  real.  Any 
more  than  the  fourflushers  knew  they  were  spurious. 
They  all  gabbled  and  wrote,  painted  and  gabbled,  and 
there  was  no  difference  to  them. 

About  the  men  she  had  noticed  one  thing.  Their 
egoism  was  the  egoism  of  ideas.  They  were  better 
than  others,  they  thought,  because  of  the  ideas  in 
their  heads.  They  were  excitedly  snobbish  about 
these  ideas  as  people  are  snobbish  about  clothes. 
But  they  weren't  better  than  others  because  they 
were  they.  They  were  always  leaning  on  things  to 
make  them  feel  superior.  Radicalism  was  a  series  of 
ideas  that  they  picked  up  because  they  felt  a  superior 
intellectualism  in  them. 

Ruth  had  started  thinking  in  this  direction  after 
listening  to  Levine,  Doris'  friend.  She  had  felt  some- 
thing of  the  sort  before.  But  Levine,  with  his  almost 
oily  pessimism,  who  talked  always  as  if  he  were  selling 
something,  had  made  it  clear. 

"The  women  who  go  in  for  revolt,"  Levine  had 
said,  "Hm,  that's  another  story.  They're  not  inter- 
ested in  egoism.  Because  as  yet  there  isn't  a  highly 
developed  caste  system  among  women.  They  still 
kind  of  herd  together  as  a  sex  and  they  try  to  impress 
each  other  only  with  their  superior  artificialities — as 
to  who  has  the  most  doting  husband,  the  nicest  times, 
the  most  accomplished  servants. 

"But  men — there  you  have  something  else,  don't 
you  think?  And  the  men  we  know — the  hangers-on 
around  here,  comical,  eh?  You  can  almost  see  them 
bargain  hunting  for  ideas.  They  don't  stand  up  on 
their  own  feet  and  let  out  yaps.  They  keep  crawling 
inside  of  new  ideas.  They  keep  using  ideas  as  mega- 
phones to  proclaim  their  own  superiorities.  Little 


GARGOYLES  245 

men  playing  hide  and  seek  inside  of  big  ideas.  Using 
ideas  about  art  and  life  as  kids  use  pumpkin  heads 
on  Hallowe'en.  To  frighten  and  impress  the  neigh- 
bors. Another  simile — borrowed  finery,  eh?  Ah, 
they're  all  fools.  It's  hard  to  be  much  interested  in 
people  unless  you're  a  poet.  If  you're  a  poet  then 
what  you  do  is  ignore  people  and  go  down  like  a 
deep-sea  diver  to  the  bottoms  of  life.  Down  there 
it's  interesting.  Yes,  growths  like  on  the  ocean  floor." 

As  a  contrast  to  these  men,  gabbling  in  her  ear 
and  fumbling  with  her  hands,  Basine  had  interested 
her  at  once.  At  first  she  had  accepted  the  way  he 
ignored  her  as  a  natural  attitude.  Later,  he  would 
become  friendly  and  she  looked  forward  to  his  friend- 
ship. It  would  be  interesting  to  know  what  an  egoist 
like  Basine  thought  about  things.  His  ideas  were 
obviously  rather  stupid,  but  then — there  was  some- 
thing else.  Strength,  determination.  He  wasn't  like 
the  intellectuals,  continuily  losing  themselves  in  new 
ideas  and  parading  around  like  kids  in  their  big 
brothers'  pants.  She  disliked  that  kind  of  men.  The 
longer  you  knew  them  the  more  unreal  they  became. 
Until  finally,  when  you  knew  them  through  and 
through  it  was  like  knowing  an  inferior  edition  of  an 
encyclopedia  through  and  through.  Everything  was 
inside  but  it  made  no  sense.  It  had  no  direction.  A 
jumble  of  ideas  and  informations — but  they  formed 
no  plot,  no  man.  They  weren't  really  egoists — the 
intellectuals.  Men  like  Basine  were. 

But  his  aloofness  seemd  to  increase  with  time. 
There  had  been  no  natural  evolution  of  friendship. 
She  thought  then,  "He  acts  artificially  toward  me. 
It's  because  he  doesn't  want  anything  to  sidetrack 
him.  Not  even  friendships.  He  isn't  quite  human. 


246  GARGOYLES 

He's  like  a  machine  that's  wound  up.  And  he  must 
run  till  he  breaks  down." 

This  image  of  Basine  fascinated  her.  A  man 
without  heart,  a  cool  will  feeling  its  way  tirelessly 
toward  power,  a  thirst  for  power  that  increased  rather 
than  stated  itself  with  success.  When  he'd  been  elected 
judge,  he  had  surprised  her  by  asking,  "Would  you 
like  to  come  along  with  me  to  the  County  Building? 
The  office  doesn't  include  a  secretary,  but  I  need  one 
on  my  own  account." 

During  the  months  she  had  gained  an  almost  em- 
barrassing insight  into  the  activities  engulfing  Basine. 
The  man  himself  remained  hidden,  non-existent.  But 
the  world  in  which  he  had  obliterated  himself  became 
vividly  outlined  for  her.  The  intrigues,  counter  in- 
trigues, the  complexities  of  his  climb,  these  were  open 
secrets  to  her.  He  seemed  shameless  about  them. 
Often  when  she  watched  him  furtively  as  he  wrote 
out  political  speeches  should  would  think,  "Is  there  a 
man  there?" 

It  seemed  to  her  there  was  not.  Only  an  ambition 
tirelessly  at  work.  An  ambition  with  a  keen,  nervous 
face,  sharp  eyes,  thin  hands  and  an  eloquent  voice. 
But  something  more.  A  man  who  didn't  hide  inside 
ideas  but  who  remained  outside  them,  giving  himself 
to  nothing  except  his  consuming  desire  to  utilize  ideas 
for  his  own  end.  He  remained  outside  manipulating. 
He  manipulated  life.  All  for  what? 

Fascinated,  she  fell  in  love.  When  he  came  in 
where  she  was,  her  heart  jumped.  When  he  talked 
to  her,  something  contracted  in  her  throat,  and 
frightened  her.  She  had  her  day  dreams.  As  the 
spring  opened  sunny  mornings  over  the  streets,  she 
would  sit  gazing  out  of  the  tall  windows  and  think 


GARGOYLES  247 

of  Basine.  Her  thoughts  took  an  odd  turn.  They 
built  up  scenes  in  which  Basine  lay  defeated.  Acci- 
dents had  maimed  him.  Political  reversals  had  taken 
the  heart  out  of  him.  He  was  ruined,  •  poor, 
without  employment.  She  pictured  such  situations  with 
relish.  In  them  she  appeared  as  an  understanding 
one.  She  would  fancy  herself  coming  to  him  and 
shaking  her  head  sadly  and  saying,  "Poor  man.  I'm 
so  sorry.  But  you  see  ...  you  see  where  it  all  led? 
to  this." 

And  she  would  fancy  him  smiling  back  with  a 
romantic  tiredness  and  reaching  for  her  hand  and 
answering  as  if  he  were  an  actor  with  a  speech : 

"Yes,  my  dear?  I've  been  wrong.  Ambition  is 
wrong.  I'm  ruined.  And  it  is  only  proof  that  I  was 
wrong." 

And  then,  in  her  fancies,  he  would  look  at  her 
tenderly  and  raising  her  hand  to  his  lips  murmur, 
"Forgive  me,  Ruth." 

The  door  of  the  chambers  opened  and  Ruth  looked 
up,  startled.  Paul  Schroder  strode  in.  He  looked 
jaunty.  She  smiled.  He  was  one  of  Basine's  friends, 
and  she  liked  him  for  that.  He  had  been  of  the  hard- 
working loyal  ones  during  Basine's  campaign. 

"Oh,  nothing  in  particular,"  he  said.  "Thought 
I'd  just  drop  in  for  a  smoke.  How's  his  Honor, 
these  days?" 

"He's  very  fine,"  Ruth  answered.  Schroder  shook 
his  head. 

"I'm  afraid  he's  drying  up,"  he  grinned.  "That's 
the  trouble  with  men  of  his  type.  Get  their  noses 
down  to  a  grindstone  and  never  have  time  to  look 
up." 

Ruth  blushed.     That   didn't   sound   like   a   loyal 


248  GARGOYLES 

speech.     She  saw  Schroder  smiling  broadly  at  her. 

"You're  quite  a  champion  of  his,"  he  was  saying. 
"Well,  well.  Maybe  his  Honor  isn't  as  slow  as  I've 
been  giving  him  credit  for  being." 

From  anyone  else  this  would  have  been  offensive, 
she  thought.  But  there  was  something  pleasing  in 
the  accusation.  She  hesitated  and  then  returned  his 
smile. 

"You  know  as  well  as  I,  what  kind  of  a  man  Judge 
Basine  is,"  she  answered.  "He's  the  kind  every  woman 
respects  at  first  sight." 

"Loves,  you  mean,"  said  Schroder. 

"Oh  no,  I  don't  think  a  woman  could  really  love 
Mr.  Basine,"  she  smiled.  "He's  too  much  wrapped 
up  in  himself." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  then,"  said  Schroder,  "his 
wife  puts  up  a  pretty  good  bluff  then." 

Ruth's  smile  left  her. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "of  course." 

Schroder  laughed. 

"Well,  well,"  he  went  on,  "so  you'd  forgotten  he 
had  a  wife.  That's  a  sweet  kettle  of  fish.  Such 
memory  lapses  are  dangerous.  Watch  your  step, 
young  lady.  Look  out." 

He  stood  up  and  approached  her  and  wagged  a 
finger  mockingly.  In  a  way  Schroder  annoyed  her. 
He  always  made  her  feel  juvenile.  She  could  never 
use  any  of  her  sophisticated  phrases  on  him.  Because 
he  laughed  too  loudly  and  if  you  retorted  cleverly 
he  always  guffawed  as  if  he  had  trapped  you  into 
having  to  be  clever.  His  manner  alwavs  seemed  to 
say,  "You  can't  put  it  over  me.  I  know.  I  know.  .  ." 

Ruth  turned  with  relief  at  the  sound  of  a  door 
opening.  Basine.  This  was  one  of  his  habits,  to 


GARGOYLES  249 

appear  suddenly  and  for  no  reason  at  all  and  walk 
up  and  down  the  large  room  as  if  immersed  in  grave 
thought.  She  had  often  wondered  why  he  did  this. 
She  thought  it  was  because  the  work  on  the  bench 
made  him  too  nervous  or  because  there  were  so  many 
things  weighing  on  his  mind  that  he  needed  a  few 
minutes  now  and  then  to  straighten  himself  out. 

But  while  thinking  this  she  had  always  felt  that  his 
sudden  appearances  had  something  to  do  with  her. 
It  was  perhaps  only  a  part  of  her  vanity,  she  mused, 
but  she  always  had  this  impression — that  despite  his 
indifference  and  sternness  he  was  curiously  attentive. 
No  matter  how  busy  he  was  he  never  absented  him- 
self long.  He  was  always  returning  and  walking  up 
and  down.  It  was  odd,  but  she  felt  at  times  that  he 
walked  up  and  down  for  her,  to  be  near  her. 

"Hello  Paul,"  Basine's  eyes  slanted  up  at  him,  his 
head  slightly  lowered.  A  pose  which  gave  him  a  pug- 
naciously concentrated  air  such  as  a  schoolmaster 
looking  over  the  top  of  his  glasses  at  an  erring  pupil 
might  achieve.  "What  do  you  want?"  A  disconcert- 
ing directness  he  reserved  for  the  embarrassment  of 
his  friends.  He  asked  straightforward  questions, 
point-blank  questions.  His  questions  always  had  the 
air  of  troops  unafraid,  wheeling  in  manoeuver  to  face 
the  enemy. 

"Nothing  much,  Judge.  But  your  office  is  kind  of 
restful." 

Schroder  rolled  a  kittenish  eye  toward  Ruth. 

"Oh!"  Basine  stiffened.     "Hm." 

Schroder  winked  at  the  girl.  He  came  forward, 
and  added,  "All  the  comforts  of  home,  eh?"  And 
dropped  into  a  chair  beside  her. 

He  had  the  faculty  of  boyishness,  a  talent  for  inti- 


250  GARGOYLES 

macies.  His  trick  was  a  conscious  thrust  beneath 
the  guard  of  women.  He  chose  to  ignore  the  delicate 
fol  de  rols  of  pursuit,  the  pretense  of  formality.  He 
refused  to  recognize  the  barriers  of  dignity,  strange- 
ness, social  poise — but  stepped  through  them  with  an 
tasy  laugh  as  if  perfectly  aware  of  what  lay  beyond, 
and  seated  himself  beside  his  quarry  in  the  guise  of  a 
mischievous  boy  asking  to  be  congratulated  for  his 
boldness. 

Women  succumbed  to  this  gesture,  disarmed  by  its 
frankness,  its  pretense  to  innocent  juvenility.  In  this 
manner  Schroder  achieved  within  an  hour  intimacies 
which  came  to  other  men  only  after  months  of  labori- 
ous toil.  He  threw  a  noise  of  laughter  over  the 
bantering  innuendoes  of  his  talk,  disguising  boldness 
in  its  own  obviousness.  His  sallies  seemed  to  say, 
"You  have  nothing  to  fear  from  us  since  we  are  not 
secretive.  We  are  cards  on  the  table." 

Women  thought  of  him,  "He's  lots  of  fun.  You 
don't  have  to  pretend  with  him.  You  can  play  and 
talk  without  feeling  he's  laying  traps  for  you." 

But  despite  the  straightforwardness  of  the  man  they 
soon  located  the  overtone  in  his  conversation.  It  lay 
in  his  eyes.  His  eyes  never  gave  themselves  to  his 
laughter.  They  seemed  to  watch  avidly  from  behind 
something.  It  was  as  if  they  were  independent  of 
his  characterization  as  a  frankly  mischievous  over- 
grown boy.  They  were  able  to  ask  amazingly  in- 
decent questions  in  the  midst  of  his  frankest  outbursts. 
Women  invariably  grew  embarrassed  under  their 
stare.  There  was  no  defense  against  the  inquisitive 
Impudence  with  which  they  announced  the  male's 
concentration.  Their  gleam  was  like  an  unmistakable 
whisper — an  invitation. 


GARGOYLES  251 

Basine  admired  the  man.  But  he  remained  oblivi- 
ous to  this  side  of  him.  Schroder's  female  conquests 
had  never  interested  the  Judge.  He  had  heard  of 
them  and  forgotten  immediately.  Now,  however, 
memories  returned.  Schroder  was  an  unscrupulous 
animal.  Basine  looked  at  him  with  a  hopeless  mis- 
giving. 

He  noticed  as  Schroder  and  Ruth  talked  that  he 
seemed  on  far  more  intimate  terms  with  her  than  he. 
There  was  an  esprit  between  the  two  as  if  they  were 
comrades  of  long  standing.  His  friend's  familiarity 
was  a  shock — as  if  he  had  caught  him  undressed,  un- 
expectedly. Basine  listened  to  his  talk  with  an  aloof 
frown,  as  if  he  were  unable  to  focus  his  attention  on 
the  scene.  He  was  thinking  of  something  else — far- 
away things,  vast  preoccupations. 

"Loafing  is  an  art.     Don't  you  think  so,  Ruth?" 

"I've  never  had  time  to  find  out." 

"Hm.    I'm  teacher.    Want  me  to  be  teacher?7* 

"Why  yes,  if  you  have  time  in  your  loafing." 

"Time  for  you  always,  my  dear."  A  contemplative 
stare  at  the  girl.  "What  would  you  say,  Judge,  if  I 
fall  in  love  with  your  charming  secretary."  He 
laughed.  Basine  cleared  his  throat.  He  felt  miser- 
ably out  of  this  sort  of  thing.  He  was  shocked  to 
hear  Ruth  giggle. 

"Yes  sir,"  Schroder  continued.  "And  what  are  you 
doing  this  evening?" 

"Nothing,  Mr.  Schroder." 

"Well,  why  waste  time?  How  about  dinner  and 
a  show?" 

"Really?"  She  glanced  at  Basine  as  if  to  declare 
him  in  on  this,  give  and  take.  He  was  preoccupied, 


252  GARGOYLES 

hardly  observing  what  was  happening.     She  pouted. 

"Cross  my  heart,"  said  Schroder. 

"Thanks  very  much.  A  very  generous,  if  general 
invitation." 

"Discovered!"  Schroder  laughed.  "All  right  then. 
Six  o'clock  at  the  Auditorium.  Woman's  entrance. 
I'll  wear  a  red  rose  in  my  ear.  Can't  miss  me." 

Ruth  nodded. 

"There  you  are,  George,"  Schroder  cried.  "All 
done  in  a  minute.  And  tomorrow  we'll  be  in  love 
with  each  other.  What'll  you  marry  us  for,  your 
Honor?  Remember  I  helped  elect  you."  A  boister- 
ous laugh  that  seemed  to  mock  the  boastfulness  and 
prophecies  of  the  man  and  say  of  itself,  "I'm  joshing 
all  of  you  including  me"  .  .  . 

Basine  left  them.  His  heart  was  heavy,  uncom- 
fortable. He  sat  on  the  bench  frowning  at  the  scene. 
Eager  lawyers  whispering;  a  woman  in  a  green  hat 
holding  a  handkerchief  to  her  eyes;  a  bald-headed 
man  on  the  other  side  of  the  long  mahogany  table; 
faces  for  a  background.  A  divorce  case.  The  woman 
weeping  was  a  wife.  The  bald-headed  one  with  the 
air  of  a  board  of  directors'  meeting  about  him  ogled 
his  accusers  with  dignity.  He  was  a  husband.  The 
jury  sat  dolorously  inattentive  in  the  box.  A  witness 
was  testifying. 

Other  people's  troubles.  An  interminable  jawing 
back  and  forth — lawyers,  defendants,  witnesses  and 
more  lawyers.  Basine  frowned.  Other  people's 
troubles — and  he  had  his  own.  This  thing  before 
him  was  an  intrusion.  At  best  he  had  no  sympathy 
for  the  interminable  jawing  that  went  on  under  his 
eyes.  He  had  grown  passionately  interested  in  what 
he  called  the  people.  But  when  he  thought  of  the 


GARGOYLES  253 

people  he  thought  of  them  as  a  force,  a  group,  an 
army  standing  with  faces  raised  repeating  certain 
slogans — a  vision  that  Doris  had  bequeathed  him. 
The  interminable  jawing,  weeping,  accusation  and 
denial  before  him  from  day  to  day  had  nothing  to 
do  with  the  people.  About  these  individuals  he  was 
cynical.  And  more,  he  was  not  interested. 

The  witness  was  testifying.  The  intimidating  air 
of  the  judge  seemed  to  confuse  her.  Her  confusion 
irritated  Basine.  He  turned  indignantly  and  faced 
her  with  a  bullying  frown. 

"What  is  it  you're  trying  to  say,  madam?  Did  you 
see  this  man  beat  her?" 

"Yes,  your  honor  ...  I  ...  I  ...  that  is  ..." 

Basine  controlled  his  temper  and  grimaced  humor- 
ously at  the  jurors  whose  faces  at  once  lighted  with  an 
appreciative  smile.  A  fearless  man,  Judge  Basine, 
who  couldn't  tolerate  the  mumble  mumble  of  legal 
technicalities  and  who  struck  at  the  roots  of  things 
when  he  took  charge  of  a  witness. 

.  .  .  They  were  in  the  room  behind  him.  Alone. 
An  intolerable  thought.  But,  impossible  to  keep  his 
thought  away.  His  imagination  like  a  merciless  flagel- 
late, belabored  him  with  fancies.  Paul  would  teach 
her.  Lean  over  and  kiss  her.  And  she  would  kiss 
in  return  and  whisper,  "Paul  ..."  He  was  unmarried 
and  good  looking.  Perhaps  she  was  heartbroken, 
too.  He,  Basine,  had  never  spoken  despite  the  light 
he  had  recognized  of  late  in  her  eyes.  She  was  in 
love  with  him  and  filled  with  despair  because  her  love 
was  useless.  So  now  she  would  turn  to  Schroder  in 
desperation.  She  would  try  to  forget  him,  Basine. 
It  was  logical.  Women  forgot  hurts  in  that  way — 
by  giving  themselves  to  someone  else. 


254  GARGOYLES 

The  heaviness  grew  unbearable.  Another  man 
was  touching  Ruth.  This  was  unbearable.  He 
couldn't  stand  it.  But  why?  What  difference?  He 
couldn't  .  .  .  She  was  so  beautiful.  Another  man's 
hands  were  desecration. 

A  weakness  came  to  him.  His  heart  darkened. 
What  if  she  did,  with  Schroder?  They  were  probably 
kissing  now.  It  had  been  hard  to  imagine  himself 
kissing  her.  To  him  she  somehow  seemed  aloof,  be- 
yond possession.  But  it  was  easy  to  imagine  Schroder. 
Men  and  women  put  their  arms  around  each  other 
and  that  was  an  end  to  aloofness. 

He  made  an  effort  to  pull  himself  together.  Voices 
were  droning  around  him — other  people's  troubles. 
Faces  thrust  themselves  tactlessly  at  his  eyes.  He 
grew  nauseated.  He  had  never  felt  like  this  before. 
As  if  he  must  do  something  despite  his  will.  His  will 
said,  "Sit  there.  Don't  move.  It's  none  of  your 
business."  But  this  other  thing  was  pulling  him  out 
of  his  seat  and  moving  his  body  for  him. 

He  clenched  his  teeth  and  muttered  to  himself, 
"She's  no  good.  Wasting  my  time  on  her!" 

"That  will  be  all  for  today,"  Basine  muttered.  He 
placed  his,  hand  wearily  over  his  forehead.  This 
would  make  them  think  he  was  ill.  His  clerk  came 
forward. 

"Anything  wrong,  Judge?"  he  asked  with  concern. 

Basine  shook  his  head  with  Spartan  indifference  to 
the  mythical  disease  consuming  him. 

"No,"  he  said,  belying  his  answer  in  its  tone, 
"court  is  adjourned  until  ten  o'clock  tomorrow." 

He  nodded  briefly  at  the  faces.  The  solicitous  re- 
gard in  the  eyes  of  attorneys  and  jurors  reassured 
him.  He  was  ill,  very  ill — that  was  it.  Of  course, 


GARGOYLES  255 

that  was  it.  The  eyes  of  the  attorneys  and  jurors 
said,  "You  are  working  too  hard.  You  must  be  care- 
ful of  a  nervous  breakdown.  In  your  prime  too.  Be 
careful." 

He  walked  off  the  bench,  his  step  unsteady.  He 
was  acting.  But  the  fact  that  his  step  was  not  authen- 
ticiy  unsteady  was  an  accident — and  illogical.  He 
felt  it  logical  to  walk  unsteadily  since  everyone 
thought  him  ill  and  on  the  verge  of  a  breakdown. 

"You'd  better  go  home,  Judge." 

Basine  nodded  gratefully  to  his  clerk.  He  opened 
the  door  to  his  chambers.  The  sight  of  Schroder 
bewildered  him.  Schroder  was  still  there.  He  had 
his  hat  in  his  hand,  though.  Basine  stared  at  his 
friend.  His  heart  contracted  and  his  breath  fluttered 
in  his  throat. 

"What's  wrong,  George?" 

"Nothing.     Headache.     Knocked  off  for  the  day." 

Words  were  hard  to  speak.  His  eyes  turned  to 
Ruth.  She  was  watching  him.  Frightenedly,  he 
thought.  Had  she  done  something?  Kissed?  They 
looked  guilty.  He  tried  to  find  answers  to  the  ques- 
tions by  staring  at  her.  Was  she  the  same  as  she  had 
been?  Or  had  she  given  her  lips?  A  vital  question. 
They  were  going  out  tonight  together.  Basine  con- 
trolled himself.  He  sat  down  at  his  desk  and  ran 
his  hand  wearily  over  his  head. 

"Well,  so  long,"  Schroder  spoke.  "Hope  you  feel 
better,  George."  A  pause.  "See  you  later,  Ruth." 

See  her  later!  They  had  no  sympathy  for  his  ill- 
ness. They  would  go  out  and  laugh,  hold  hands, 
make  love — despite  his  trouble.  He  sat  brooding 
over  the  cruelty  of  women.  "Cruel.  No  finer  feel- 
ings," he  mumbled  to  himself. 


GARGOYLES 

They  were  alone.  Was  he  ill?  What  was  it  that 
had  lifted  him  off  the  bench?  Nothing  definite.  A 
dark  disorder  in  his  mind,  a  heaviness  in  his  heart 
that  had  seemed  part  of  the  room.  He  wanted  to 
moan.  Yes,  he  was  sick. 

"Can  I  do  anything,  Judge?'1 

He  hated  her.  Her  voice  with  its  hypocritical  con- 
cern. As  if  she  cared  for  him.  After  what  had 
happened  between  her  and  Schroder  ...  see  you  later 
.  .  .  and  he  called  her  Ruth. 

"No,  Miss  Davis." 

This  was  unbearable.  He  would  insult  her.  There 
was  relief  in  insulting  her,  making  her  suffer  for 
something,  too.  But  she  might  go  away  if  he  did. 
He  couldn't  go  on  with  his  work  any  more.  Work 
was  impossible.  A  disease  was  active  in  him  sending 
out  dark  clouds  that  choked  his  thought  and  swelled 
his  heart  with  pain.  She  might  leave  for  good.  Then 
what  could  he  do?  Nothing.  But  why  all  this  make- 
believe?  He  would  tell  her  he  loved  her.  Simple. 
That  would  drain  him  of  his  pain.  He  stood  up  and 
paced.  She  was  at  her  desk,  he  noticed,  eyes  large 
and  excited. 

But  he  could  do  nothing,  say  nothing.  He  was 
impotent.  Good  God!  he  must.  How?  No  way  he 
could  think  of.  The  thing  was  smothering  him.  Be- 
fore— days  and  weeks  before — he  had  kept  it  down. 
But  now  it  had  slid  from  underneath  and  was  in  his 
head.  There  was  no  outlet.  He  dared  not  talk. 

No  thoughts  were  in  his  mind.  Henrietta,  his 
children,  home,  morality,  marriage,  none  of  these  was 
in  his  mind.  But  there  was  a  restriction,  a  wall  he 
could  not  pass.  There  were  things  holding  him  with 


GARGOYLES  257 

merciless  hands.  They  gripped  at  his  body  and 
thrust  themselves  like  gags  into  his  mouth. 

She  had  risen  and  was  standing  near  the  window. 
If  he  kept  to  his  pacing  he  must  come  near  her.  It 
was  her  fault.  He  was  just  pacing.  She  was  in  his 
path.  If  he  walked  straight  to  the  end  of  the  room 
she  would  be  in  his  path.  Why  should  he  turn  out 
for  her? 

He  paused  beside  her.  He  must  say  nothing.  It 
was  talk  that  was  impossible.  He  stood  looking  at 
her  until  his  eyes  grew  bewildered.  There  was  a 
moment  in  which  he  seemed  to  vanish  from  himself, 
as  if  he  had  stepped  bodily  out  of  himself.  His 
thought  paralyzed  with  a  curious  terror,  he  saw 
nothing.  The  moment  of  unconsciousness  passed  and 
he  was  still  alive  and  still  on  his  feet.  His  voice  lay 
under  control  in  his  throat  and  the  memory  of  his 
name  sat  like  a  perpetual  visitor  in  his  thought. 

But  there  was  a  change.  A  miraculous  thing  had 
happened.  He  was  no  longer  Basine.  He  was  a 
stranger  in  a  strange  world.  He  was  holding  her  in 
his  arms.  An  impossible  sensation  was  in  him.  This 
was  something  he  couldn't  believe.  He  wanted  to 
look  at  himself.  He  had  his  arms  around  her.  But 
there  was  no  woman  in  the  circle  of  his  arms.  He 
was  holding  something  that  let  his  delirium  escape. 
Torments  were  emptying  themselves  in  the  embrace. 
The  miseries  that  had  accumulated  under  the  surface 
of  his  months  of  resistance,  were  leaving  him,  flying 
from  him.  His  heart  was  growing  unbearably  light. 

"Oh  I"  he  murmured.  Her  arms  had  tightened 
and  he  saw  her  eyes  approach  him.  They  were  rap- 
turous, i 

She  was  warm,  intimate,  close  to  him.     Her  lips, 


258  GARGOYLES 

still  piquantly  strange,  were  offering  themselves.  She 
was  unlike  everything  he  knew.  A  startling  vigor,  as 
if  he  had  been  changed  into  a  rampaging  giant,  swept 
him  as  they  kissed.  He  was  great,  strong.  He  could 
walk  over  the  heads  of  the  world.  He  had  no  need 
for  further  embrace.  He  stepped  away,  his  face 
radiant. 

Ruth  looked  at  him  in  confusion.  This  was  a  new 
Basine.  He  frightened.  The  mask  was  gone,  the 
frown  of  preoccupation.  She  grew  dizzy  in  the  light 
of  his  eyes.  He  was  a  stranger.  What  should  she 
call  him?  But  he  was  talking  to  her  in  a  voice  that  he 
seemed  to  have  kept  secret  .  .  .  "I  love  you,  Ruth.  I 
love  you." 

He  laughed.  She  smiled  uncertainly  and  felt  that 
her  face  looked  awkward.  She  could  see  the  lines  of 
her  cheeks  bulging  as  she  lowered  her  eyes.  This  con- 
fused her  and  made  her  feel  stiff.  There  had  been 
something  of  this  sort  a  few  minutes  ago  in  Paul 
Schroder  when  he  had  tried  to  take  her  hand.  But 
now  the  thing  she  had  noted  calmly  in  Schroder  seemed 
a  puny  imitation.  Here  it  was  real.  He  was  laugh- 
ing, softly,  joyously.  He  was  like  a  boy.  Her  heart 
filled  with  panic.  She  put  her  arms  quickly  around 
his  neck  and  pressed  herself  close  to  him.  The  panic 
went  out  of  her  deliciously. 

"George,  I  love  you.     I'm  so  happy." 

They  sat  looking  at  each  other,  an  excited  smile  in 
Basine's  eyes.  His  body  was  tingling.  A  new  sense 
had  come.  It  lived  in  his  fingers.  He  was  holding 
her  hand.  His  fingers  were  charged  with  an  amazing 
energy.  They  seemed  to  have  become  part  of  a  dif- 
ferent person.  He  was  able  to  enjoy  the  ecstasy  that 
confused  his  fingers  as  if  it  were  an  external  emotion. 


GARGOYLES  259 

The  rest  of  him  was  clear,  almost  tranquil. 

"Well,"  he  said.  It  was  still  hard  to  talk.  He  was 
aware  of  incongruities.  He  was  not  Basine  talking, 
not  the  new  Basine,  not  the  one  whose  fingers  danced 
and  throbbed.  His  voice  belonged  to  other  Basines 
— other  characterizations  whose  awkward  ghosts 
fluttered  nervously  in  his  thought.  He  would  discuss 
this  phenomenon.  It  was  easy,  after  all.  Be  honest. 
She  was  one  with  whom  he  could  be  astonishingly 
honest.  They  were  isolated.  The  world  was  a 
futility.  There  was  an  end  to  make-believe  now.  It 
was  all  honest,  tranquil,  joyous.  He  began  again: 

"Well,  isn't  it  strange.  I  can  hardly  talk  to  you. 
I'm  not  used  to  us  yet.  This  way.  I've  loved  you 
since  I  first  saw  you.  But  I've  told  so  many  lies  about 
that  to  both  of  us.  .  .  "  He  paused  to  smile  at  her  as 
if  asking  her  not  to  believe  him  a  liar,  or  if  she  must 
— a  liar  in  a  high  cause — "that  the  things  I  want  to 
say  now  seem  like  .  .  .  like  the  contradictions  of  some- 
thing. Of  old  lies  ...  in  a  way." 

She  nodded. 

"Oh,  I  know,"  she  whispered.  A  preposterous 
admiration  of  her  intelligence  overcame  him.  Of 
course  she  understood  I  It  was  unnecessary  to  talk  to 
her.  She  had  kissed  and  embraced  him.  She  had  felt 
the  same  things  he  had.  And  now,  their  thoughts 
were  alike.  They  were  like  one  person,  having  shared 
something  that  filled  them.  It  was  unnecessary  to  talk. 
Because  if  he  remained  silent  she  knew  he  was  think- 
ing of  her.  A  charming  sense  of  comradeship  came 
to  him. 

"I  feel,"  he  said,  "as  if  we  were  too  intimate  for 

words." 

She  nodded  again  and  smiled. 


260  GARGOYLES 

"We'll  make  a  holiday,"  he  added.  "Come,  we'll 
go  for  a  drive." 

They  embraced.  This  time  he  thought  of  Henri- 
etta. Ruth  was  different  from  his  wife.  Her 
shoulder  blades  felt  different  under  his  fingers.  It 
was  impossible  to  think  they  were  both  women.  His 
arms  around  Henrietta  meant  nothing.  His  arms 
around  Ruth  now — he  closed  his  eyes  in  order  to 
closet  himself  with  indefinable  sensations. 

They  emerged  from  the  traffic  of  the  loop.  Basine 
at  the  wheel  of  his  newly  purchased  roadster  dropped 
a  hand  on  hers. 

"I  feel  better  like  this,"  he  said. 

"Isn't  it  wonderful,"  she  whispered. 

He  would  have  liked  to  tell  her  they  were  floating 
over  buildings.  But  he  kept  silent.  Words  were  still 
self-conscious  interlopers.  The  houses  moved  away. 
A  spring  wind  was  in  their  faces.  They  were  silent. 
The  pavements  ended.  Basine  brought  the  car  to  a 
stop. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  do,"  hev  said.  "I'm  so 
happy." 

He  placed  his  arms  around  her.  The  touch  of  her 
body  through  his  clothes  was  a  reminder  of  something. 
He  gave  it  no  words.  They  sat  embraced,  their  faces 
together  and  an  unspoken  laugh  in  their  hearts.  The 
sun  was  high  overhead.  Basine  tried  to  remember 
himself  .  .  .  Henrietta,  his  home,  his  position.  Ah, 
banalities.  He  was  proud.  He  was  above  remorse, 
regret;  above  himself.  There  was  nothing  in  the 
world  as  beautiful  as  the  moment  he  commanded. 

Ruth  leaned  avidly  against  him  as  if  seeking  refuge 
in  his  arms.  He  sat  thinking.  "It  is  right.  Every- 
thing right.  I've  done  nothing.  No  compromise. 


GARGOYLES  261 

Nothing.     I'm  happy.     There's  nothing  to  frighten 
me." 

He  felt  released. 

17 

Summer  lay  like  a  Mandarin  coat  over  the  city. 
It  was  June.  Warm,  sun-awninged  streets  glistened 
with  ornamental  colors.  Women  in  gaudy  fabrics, 
men  in  violent  hat  bands,  straws,  panamas,  striped 
shirts,  sun  parasols  like  huge  discs  of  confetti,  freshly 
painted  red  and  green  street  cars,  pastel  tinted  auto- 
mobiles— all  these  tumbled  like  a  swarm  of  sprightly 
incoherent  adjectives  along  the  foot  of  the  buildings. 

The  store  windows  like  deaf  and  dumb  hawkers 
grimaced  at  the  crowds.  Ice  creams,  silks,  swimming 
suits,  and  sport  paraphernalia;  jaunty  frocks,  white 
trousers,  candies,  festive  haberdashery,  drugs,  leather 
goods,  wicker  furniture  and  assortments  of  lingerie 
like  the  symbols  of  fastidious  sins — all  these  grimaced 
behind  plate  glass. 

The  city  was  in  bloom.  People,  perspiring  and 
lightly  dressed,  sauntered  by  the  plate  glass  orchards. 
Summer  filled  the  city  with  reminiscent  smells.  Sky, 
water,  grass  scampered  like  merry  ghosts  through  the 
carnival  of  the  shopping  center.  Warm,  sun-awninged 
streets;  ornamental  men  and  women — summer  spread 
itself  through  the  crowds,  warmed  the  bargain 
hunters,  loiterers,  clerks,  stenographers,  business  men 
and  housewives  into  a  half  sleep. 

They  peered  lazily  at  each  other.  Their  mysteri- 
ous preoccupations  seemed  to  have  subsided.  The 
sun  made  holiday  in  the  streets  and  the  high,  flutter- 
ing windows  showered  endless  tiny  suns  on  the  air. 


262  GARGOYLES 

The  morning  held  the  unreal  soul  of  some  forgotten 
picnic. 

Ten  o'clock.  Fanny  Gilchrist  turned  with  an  in- 
ward sigh  and  walked  out  of  the  crowded  business 
street^  This  was  LaSalle  street  and,  concealed  in 
the  buildings  around  her,  were  people  who  knew  her 
and  might  see  her.  Accidentally  bump  into  her. 

The  crowds  grew  thinner  and  less  familiar  types 
of  faces  drifted  by.  This  was  better.  She  wasn't 
exactly  afraid.  But  what  if  someone  did  bump  into 
her  accidentally?  Then  she  would  have  to  say  where 
she  was  going  and,  if  she  lied,  perhaps  they  would 
insist  upon  coming  along  and  discover  it.  But  that 
was  foolishness.  One  never  met  people  in  streets  like 
that. 

Men  looked  at  her  with  casual  interest,  with  insig- 
nificant enthusiasm,  as  she  walked  by  them.  A  bright- 
haired,  shining-eyed  young  woman  with  a  body  undu- 
lating softly  under  a  grey  and  green  trimmed  dress; 
she  seemed  to  light  up  the  dingy  pavements.  Other 
women  passed  lighting  them  up  also.  Each  new 
female  illuminant  was  welcomed  with  thankful,  greedy 
eyes. 

Her  red  sailor  jauntily  tilted  and  the  silken  gleam 
of  her  face  were  like  part  of  a  luscious  mask.  She 
was  a  woman  hurrying  somewhere  and  men,  bored 
with  other  women,  looked  at  her  enthusiastically.  She 
was  one  of  the  many  enigmatic  ones,  one  of  the  many 
gaudy  colored  masks  behind  which  sex  paraded  its 
mystery  through  the  sun-awninged  streets.  Eyes 
ennuied  with  the  memory  of  sex  lighted  eagerly  in 
the  presence  of  its  masks.  The  flash  of  ankles  and 
the  swell  of  thighs  under  pretty  fabrics  were  diver- 
sions even  for  moralists. 


GARGOYLES  263 

Schroder  waiting  patiently  on  a  street  corner 
watched  the  warm  crowd.  She  wouldn't  come.  Yes, 
she  would.  Well,  another  five  minutes  would  tell. 

He  saw  her  and  his  excitement  changed.  A  leisurely 
smile  came  to  his  face.  His  body  relaxed.  He 
was  a  connoisseur  in  rendezvous  and  his  enjoyment 
of  the  moment  which  witnessed  her  approach  was 
deliberate.  Women  in  themselves  did  not  interest 
him  so  much.  Their  bodies — pleasant,  yes.  But 
after  all — a  finale.  And  one  does  not  applaud  finales. 

But  now,  watching  her  lithe  figure  hurrying  toward 
him  was  a  diversion  to  be  sipped  at,  contemplated  in 
all  its  emotional  detail,  and  enjoyed.  Later  it  would 
be  this  moment  he  remembered,  if  he  remembered 
anything — which  was  uncertain.  For  his  memories 
which  had  in  his  younger  days  glistened  in  his  thought 
like  a  mosaic  of  eroticism,  had  of  late  blurred  to  a 
monotone.  He  could  remember  women,  liaisons,  pas- 
sion phrases  and  great  enthusiasms  but,  curiously,  they 
seemed  all  identical.  To  recall  how  one  woman  had 
sighed  in  his  arms  was  to  recall  the  whole  pack  of 
them.  As  if  the  souls  of  his  paramours  and  the  man- 
ner of  their  surrenders  were  contained  completely  in 
the  recollection  of  any  one  detail. 

But  despite  his  ennui,  this  moment  of  approach  still 
delighted  him.  The  woman  hurrying  to  his  side  was 
not  yet  a  woman.  She  was  still  a  mystery  whose  in- 
evitable and  never  varying  sensualism  was  masked  for 
a  final  instant  behind  unfamiliar  fabrics.  There  was 
a  piquant  unreality,  a  diverting  strangeness,  as  she 
smiled  at  him.  She  was  somebody  he  did  not  know. 
He  was  authentically  bored  with  women.  But  for  the 
moment  it  was  not  a  woman  approaching — rather  a 


264  GARGOYLES 

new  color  of  cloth,  a  new  combination  of  dress,  a  new 
species  of  social  poise  and  gesture  were  presenting 
themselves  for  ravishment.  In  these  unfamiliar  sur- 
faces lay  a  tenuous  mystery  as  if  it  were  these 
externals  he  was  about  to  embrace.  And  in  the  con- 
templation of  this  mystery,  his  interest  revived  itself. 
He  sighed.  It  was  a  mystery  which  would  vanish 
shortly. 

"Hello,  dearest." 

He  greeted  her  softly,  with  regret.  A  quixotic 
impulse  to  turn  and  walk  away  before  she  spoke  had 
died  in  him. 

Fanny  was  staring  expectantly.  He  was  familiar 
with  the  expression.  Not  in  her,  but  in  others.  This 
took  away  its  charms.  Married  women  were  nearly 
all  alike.  Full  of  distressing  short  cuts,  with  an  irri- 
tating and  incongruous  professionalism  behind  their 
bewilderment.  What  dolts  husbands  must  be  to  blunt 
women  like  that. 

As  he  took  her  hand  and  felt  her  fingers  clutch 
excitedly  around  his  palm  he  remembered  in  an  in- 
stant the  predecessors  of  her  type.  Full  of  distressing 
short  cuts.  When  they  gave  their  hands  they  withheld 
nothing.  They  denuded  themselves  with  a  look,  with 
a  handclasp.  And  the  subtlety  of  skirmishing  seemed 
entirely  foreign  to  them.  When  they  embraced  it  was 
with  an  appalling  directness.  Yes,  in  intrigue  they 
were  all  alike — all  like  precocious  children;  vague, 
bewildered  children  mimicking  the  precisions  of  their 
elders  and  exclaiming  with  distressful  incongruity : 

"Tut,  tut.  Let's  come  to  the  point.  Let's  get  down 
to  brass  tacks  and  stop  beating  around  the  bush." 

Well,  here  she  was  and  the  scene  was  on. 

"Am  I  late?" 


GARGOYLES  265 

"No,  dearest.     I  was  just  a  little  early  so  as  to 
enjoy  the  impatience  of  waiting  for  you." 

The  nuance  was  lost  upon  her.     Amorous  women 
were  a  cold  audience  for  technique. 

"I'm  so  upset.    Do  you  mind?" 

"Not  at  all,  Fanny.  Of  course  you're  upset.  But 
it  only  adds  to  your  charm." 

He  had  long  ago  abandoned  love-making  tactics, 
sensing  that  women  who  came  to  him  were  not  par- 
ticularly interested  in  tender  pretenses.  They  desired 
flattery,  but  direct  and  practical  variants.  This  one 
was  like  the  others,  flushed,  eager,  frightened  and 
gay.  He  felt  an  exhilaration  as  they  walked  toward 
the  entrance  of  the  unpretentious  hotel  around  the 
corner.  A  sense  of  conquest.  It  was  nothing  to  be 
enjoyed  in  itself.  But  if  people  knew,  which  they 
never  could,  alas,  they  would  be  awed  by  the  ease 
with  which  he  accomplished  such  things.  One,  two, 
three  meetings  and — here  they  were  again.  Paul 
Schroder  entering  a  hotel  with  a  woman  at  his  side. 

"This  isn't  a  bad  place,"  he  whispered.  "I've 
already  registered.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Paul  Johnson.  It's 
better  if  you  know  your  name,  of  course." 

Fanny  stood  tremblingly  in  front  of  the  elevator 
cage  as  he  walked  to  the  desk.  She  noticed  his  care- 
lessness, the  unselfconscious  way  in  which  he  smiled 
at  the  clerk  and  paused  to  buy  some  cigars.  The  fear 
that  had  grown  in  her  since  she  left  her  home  appeared 
to  be  reaching  a  climax.  Her  knees  shivered  under 
her  dress  and  a  catch  in  her  throat  made  breathing 
difficult. 

"There's  nothing  to  be  afraid  of,"  she  repeated 
silently  to  herself,  and  tried  to  understand  the  cause 
of  her  trembling.  Even  if  there  were  consequences 


266  GARGOYLES 

— there  was  Aubrey.     She  smiled  nervously.     It  was 
his  fault.    He  was  a  fool. 

They  entered  the  elevator.  A  sleepy  boy  shut  the 
cage  door  after  them.  Schroder  gripped  her  arm  and 
his  fingers  caressed  the  soft  flesh.  She  turned  to  him 
and  smiled.  She  was  no  longer  afraid.  A  shame- 
less, exultant  light  kindled  in  her  eyes.  She  leaned 
against  him  with  a  shiver  as  the  elevator  lifted 
slowly. 

*     *     * 

.  .  .  They  had  decided  to  check  out  in  time  for  her 
to  return  home  for  dinner. 

"I  don't  have  to  go  up  to  the  desk  with  you,  do  I?" 
she  asked. 

Schroder  smiled  tiredly. 

"Oh  no,"  he  said,  uyou  wait  at  the  entrance  with 
the  property  suit  case.  Then  we'll  both  take  a  cab 
and  drive  a  few  blocks.  I'll  get  out  with  the  bag  and 
you  drive  on  home.  It's  simple." 

Nevertheless  the  fear  she  had  experienced  in  the 
morning  returned  as  she  watched  him  go  to  the  desk. 
In  another  minute  it  would  be  all  over  and  everything 
would  be  all  right.  But  now — what  if  someone  saw 
them?  Bumped  into  her  accidentally.  The  lassitude 
which  had  filled  her  when  she  locked  the  tumbled 
hotel  room  behind  her,  gave  way  to  a  curious  panic. 
Her  tired  nerves  became  unhappily  alive. 

"Why— hello,  Mrs.  Gilchrist." 

She  was  unable  to  see  the  man  for  an  instant.  Her 
mind  had  darkened.  "I  mustn't  faint,"  she  murmured 
to  herself.  She  was  looking  at  an  unshaven,  dissi- 
pated face  that  smiled.  As  she  looked  her  world 
seemed  to  be  falling  down.  Everything  gone — 
ruined.  Because  a  face  was  smiling.  Tom  Ramsey. 


GARGOYLES  267 

The  man's  name  popped  into  her  thought. 

"Hello,"  she  muttered. 

Schroder  approached  and  frowned.  He  took  her 
arm  and  led  her  away.  She  began  to  cry  in  the  cab. 

"He  saw  us.  He  knows.  He'll  tell  everybody. 
Oh  my  God!  Why  did  you  come  up  when  you  saw 
him?  If  you'd  only  realized.  Oh,  why  did  I  do  it? 
Now  everything's  ruined.  I'm  lost." 

She  wept,  knowing  the  futility  of  tears.  An  acci- 
dent that  seemed  provokingly  unreal  and  soothingly 
unimportant — Tom  Ramsey.  Yet  the  name  was  like 
a  guillotine  block  on  which  her  head  lay  stretched. 

Schroder,  annoyed,  tried  to  console  her. 

"Who  was  it?  Listen,  pull  yourself  together. 
People  always  imagine  themselves  guiltier  looking 
than  they  are.  He  probably  thought  nothing  wrong." 

"Tom  Ramsey.  Didn't  you  see  how  he  looked  at 
me?  Oh,  God,  I'm  sick." 

"Who  is  he?" 

"He  used  to  be  my  mother's  friend.  But  he  went 
to  the  dogs.  He's  just  a  tramp  now.  He  isn't  a 
gentleman." 

Schroder  sighed. 

"Oh  well,"  he  said,  "there's  no  use  worrying. 
Come,  put  it  out  of  your  head." 

"I  can't.  Oh,  I  can't.  Why  did  I  do  it.  I'll  kill 
myself  if  ...  if  anything  happens.  Aubrey  will  .  .  . 
Oh  Paul,  I  feel  sick." 

He  stared  glumly  at  the  back  of  the  chauffeur's 
head.  A  nuisance.  A  damned  nuisance.  His  mind 
played  with  contrasts.  A  few  hours  ago  she  had 
been  shameless.  Now  she  sat  weeping.  He  thought 
of  her  as  ungrateful  and  grew  angry. 

"I'll  step  out  now,"  he  whispered.     "Call  me  up 


268  GARGOYLES 

tomorrow  at  the  office,  will  you?  Nothing  will 
happen.  Please,  be  calm.  It's  all  imagination." 

He  halted  the  cab  and  stepped  out  with  the  suit- 
case. She  would  feel  better,  he  knew,  as  soon  as  he 
disappeared.  She  would  be  able  to  convince  herself 
then  that  nothing  had  happened — that  she  was  com- 
ing home  from  a  shopping  tour. 

"Goodbye.     Call  me  up,  dearest." 

Fanny  sat  weeping  as  the  cab  moved  away.  Ramsey 
had  seen  her.  A  misery  too  heavy  for  thought 
brought  another  burst  of  tears.  She  hated  Schroder. 
And  herself,  too.  But  most  of  all  the  ragged  look- 
ing, unshaven  Ramsey  in  the  lobby.  Why  had  he 
come  at  just  that  moment?  If  they  had  left  the  room 
ten  minutes  earlier.  It  was  Paul's  fault.  He  insisted 
on  combing  his  hair,  and  reading  a  story  in  the  news- 
paper. If  he  hadn't  sent  down  for  the  newspaper  in 
the  middle  of  the  afternoon.  He  didn't  love  her  or 
he  wouldn't  have  thought  of  sending  for  it.  She  had 
laughed  at  the  time  but  it  was  an  insult.  He  was  a 
brute.  If  he  had  loved  her  he  wouldn't  have  wanted 
to  read  a  newspaper  and  they  wouldn't  have  met 
Ramsey.  She  sat  conjuring  up  dozens  of  trifling  inci- 
dents which,  had  they  occurred,  would  have  prevented 
the  fatal  meeting  with  Ramsey. 

Then  she  smiled  convulsively  through  her1  tears. 
It  was  about  the  story.  They  had  laughed  at  it  in 
the  room.  "Judge  Basine  Launches  Vice  Quiz. 
State  to  Investigate  Problem  of  Immorality  Among 
Women  Wage  Earners  .  .  ." 

"Why  girls  go  wrong  .  .  .  why  girls  go  wrong," 
rumbled  through  her  head  now  and  she  laughed  hys- 
terically. Oh,  that  tramp  of  a  Ramsey  had  spoiled 
it  all.  Otherwise  it  would  have  been  wonderful.  And 


GARGOYLES  269 

next  week,  too.  But  perhaps  he  hadn't  noticed  any- 
thing. Of  course  he  hadn't.  Paul  was  right. 

She  dried  her  tears  and  looked  into  the  twilighted 
streets.  She  had  planned  her  homecoming  days  ago. 
She  would  be  ill,  overcome  by  the  heat  and  excuse 
herself  from  the  dinner  table.  A  final  chill  shot 
through  her  heart  as  the  cab  stopped. 

She  found  herself  entering  her  home  with  complete 
poise.  It  was  almost  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 
Here  were  the  familiar  things  of  life.  Her  home, 
Aubrey,  the  rows  of  books,  the  walnut  library  table. 
Nothing  had  happened.  For  a  moment  she  was 
amazed  at  the  complete  unconsciousness  of  the  day. 
Then  smiling  delightedly  at  her  husband  in  a  chair, 
a  familiar  husband  in  a  familiar  chair,  she  removed 
her  hat  and  approached  him. 

Leaning  over  the  back  of  his  chair  she  kissed  him 
tenderly  on  the  cheek.  He  was  her  protector.  Good 
old  Aubrey,  so  familiar,  so  placid  and  unchanged.  If 
it  only  hadn't  been  for  Ramsey  everything  would  be 
so  nice  now.  But  anyway,  it  wasn't  so  bad.  She  had 
been  a  bit  hysterical. 

"Where' ve  you  been,  Fanny?" 

She  felt  no  twinge  at  the1  question.  Instead  an 
enthusiasm  for  the  situation  filled  her. 

"To  the  matinee,"  she  laughed.  "Oh,  I  saw  the 
nicest  show." 

She  leaned  forward  and  took  his  hand.  Aubrey 
regarded  her  with  a  petulant  stare.  Despite  their 
years  of  marriage,  she  was  still  an  animal,  gross  and 
irritating. 

"And  I'm  just  starved,"  she  exclaimed.  "I  was 
never  so  hungry  in  my  life." 


270  GARGOYLES 

She  laughed,  overjoyed  at  the  truth  of  the  state- 
ment and  hurried  upstairs  to  prepare  for  dinner. 

18 

The  manuscript  had  been  found  in  the  drawer 
where  William  Gilchrist  kept  his  collars.  It  lay 
underneath  a  number  of  loose  collars. 

With  the  death  of  his  father  a  curious  love  for  the 
man  had  come  to  Aubrey.  He  remembered  from  day 
to  day  things  his  father  had  said,  or  seemed  to  say. 
A  sad,  elderly  man  who  lived  secretly  in  his  thoughts. 
That  was  his  father. 

Like  him,  Aubrey  now  had  a  secret  life  that  he 
lived  only  in  his  thoughts,  and  this  was  slowly  making 
him  kin  to  the  man  who  had  died.  In  Aubrey's 
thoughts  dwelt  a  dramatic,  startling  figure — a  gleam- 
ing, hawk-faced  thunderer;  a  lean  Isaiah  of  burning 
phrases  with  an  eagle-winged  soul  beating  its  way 
toward  God.  This  was  Aubrey  Gilchrist.  Not  the 
Aubrey  whom  life  had  mysteriously  deformed  into  an 
advertising  man,  but  an  Aubrey  triumphant  who  had 
risen  above  the  petty  turns  of  Fate  and  burst  upon 
a  world — a  voice  crying  forth  astounding  phrases 
against  the  evil  of  man's  ways. 

The  inner  characterization  in  which  Aubrey  was 
gradually  immersing  himself  remained  a  vague  though 
warm  generality.  He  was  able  to  visualize  the 
Thunderer  and  able  to  enjoy  the  results  of  his  genius. 
In  his  day  dreams  he  pictured  this  inner  one  bringing 
the  world  to  his  feet.  Books  were  being  written 
about  him,  magazines  and  newspapers  were  filled  with 
his  praises  and  interpretations,  and  men  and  women 
everywhere  discussed  his  ascent  in  awe.  He  was  a 


GARGOYLES  271 

conqueror — a  bloodless  Napoleon  and  a  martyrless 
Jesus.  A  prophet  whose  genius  was  lifting  men  out 
of  the  mire. 

What  the  message  was  which  this  inner  Aubrey 
was  spreading  through  the  world,  what  the  phrases 
were  that  ignited  the  souls  of  men,  were  not  con- 
tained in  his  imaginings.  He  approached  them  from 
a  critical  and  not  creative  angle — his  fancies  present- 
ing him  with  descriptive  self  praises.  He  composed 
rambling  articles  in  his  mind  celebrating  his  triumphs. 
This  inner  Aubrey  was  eloquent,  electrifying,  unassail- 
able; men  and  women  wept  over  his  writings  and  re- 
pented; cities  reared  statues  to  him,  and  all  places 
sang  his  glories.  The  whole  thing  had  begun  as  a 
game,  deliberately  invented  to  occupy  the  leisure  of 
his  mind.  But  he  had  elaborated  on  it  and  it  had 
grown  almost  by  itself.  Now  it  preoccupied  him  to 
an  alarming  degree. 

The  manuscript  in  his  father's  collar  drawer  had 
given  him  a  shock.  He  had  kept  it  from  his  mother, 
assuring  himself  that  such  a  course  was  for  the  best. 
It  was  an  odd  document  for  his  father  to  leave  behind. 

As  he  sat  in  his  study  a  week  after  the  funeral 
reading  it  for  the  first  time,  Aubrey  grew  frightened. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  looking  at  his  father — 
for  the  first  time,  that  the  man  who  had  till  now 
been  a  half  enigmatic  figure  to  him,  stood  at  last  in 
the  room,  strong  and  alive.  The  thing  was  a  primi- 
tive type  of  novel — discoursive,  gentle,  Rabelaisian. 
It  recounted  the  mental  and  physical  adventures  of  an 
Elizabethan  philosopher  in  a  succession  of  unrelated 
episodes.  There  was  a  caress  in  the  sentences,  a 
simplicity  in  the  narrative  that  translated  itself  into 
cunning  realism. 


272  GARGOYLES 

When  he  had  finished  the  reading,  Aubrey  stared 
at  his  father's  portrait  hanging  over  one  of  the  book 
cases.  The  reality  of  the  manuscript  held  him.  He 
felt  bewildered.  It  had  for  some  three  hours  lifted  him 
out  of  the  present  and  immersed  him  in  scenes  and 
amid  a  company  of  naive  ancients,  starkly  alive.  A 
dormant  literary  sense  awakened  in  him.  The  thing 
was  a  work  of  art,  as  moving,  as  authentic  as 
Apuleius  or  Cervantes.  But  he  would  put  it  away. 
He  hid  it  in  a  private  drawer. 

Its  memory,  however,  grew  in  his  mind.  During 
his  day  at  work  the  thought  of  the  thing  his  father 
had  written  came  to  haunt  him,  as  if  it  demanded 
something.  He  felt  closer  to  it  than  he  had  ever  felt 
to  his  father.  There  was  something  distasteful, 
though,  about  the  intimacy. 

"That  was  his  soul,"  he  would  explain  over  to  him- 
self. "He  lived  that  way  inside.  It  was  like  writing 
a  biography  of  secret  dreams  for  him.  It's  strange. 
We're  all  like  that.  Even  I.  There  was  something 
odd  in  father.  Funny  we  never  guessed.  It  must 
have  been  written  a  paragraph  at  a  time  over  years 
and  years.  It  was  a  sort  of  diary." 

And  he  would  recall  excerpts  from  the  book — 
gentle  skepticisms,  childish  animalisms.  But  the  tone 
of  the  thing  which  he  could  never  put  into  words 
was  what  haunted  him  most.  Over  the  naive  acro- 
batics of  plot  and  lively  preenings  of  idea,  an  un- 
written smile  spread  itself,  a  pensive  tolerance  that 
seemed  to  say,  "Yes,  yes,  life  has  been.  This  tale  is 
a  curious  jest.  An  epitaph  over  an  empty  grave. 
Yesterday  is  unreal  and  today  is  even  less  real.  Yet 
here  are  fancies,  the  ghosts  of  sad  and  happy  folk 


GARGOYLES  273 

who  never  lived.  And  among  these  ghosts  I  once 
found  life  .  .  ." 

The  idea  of  publishing  the  manuscript  came  to 
Aubrey  one  evening  when  his  wife  returned  from  the 
theater  in  a  curious  mood.  She  was  late  for  dinner 
and  this  irritated  him.  But  her  manner  was  even 
more  irritating.  She  was  strident,  flushed,  gross.  Her 
laugh  as  they  ate  made  his  mother  frown,  he  observed. 
He  said  little.  When  they  left  the  table  an  indigna- 
tion toward  Fanny  had  come  to  him. 

He  retired  to  his  study.  Fanny  insisted  on  follow- 
ing him.  She  hovered  about  his  chair  as  he  tried  to 
read,  caressing  him  in  a  curious  way,  as  if  he  were 
a  child  with  whom  she  was  amused.  It  occurred  to 
him  that  she  thought  him  a  failure,  that  there  was 
something  condescending  in  her  manner. 

uOh,  leave  me  alone,  please,  Fanny." 

"Hm!  We're  peevish.  Dear  me.  Poor  old 
Aubrey's  working  too  hard." 

"Please." 

"But  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  I  want  to  tell  you 
about  the  matinee." 

"I'm  not  interested,  Fanny.  You  know  how  I  hate 
vaudeville." 

"I  love  it." 

"That's  your  privilege." 

"Don't  be  sarcastic,  Aubrey." 

"I'm  not.     I'm  just  tired." 

"Tired?     What  have  you  been  doing?" 

Despite  herself  she  accented  the  you.  The  memory 
of  Schroder  and  their  day  together  had  left  her.  It 
persisted,  however,  as  a  curious  elation.  The  am- 
biguity of  words  exhilarated  her.  She  felt  a  sense  of 
mastery.  She  wanted  also  to  be  tender  toward 


274  GARGOYLES 

Aubrey,  to  please  and  charm  him.  It  was  necessary 
to  do  this  in  order  to  disarm  him.  But  he  had  no 
suspicions.  She  was  certain  of  that.  Nevertheless 
it  was  necesary  to  make  sure  he  had  none.  There 
were  many  paradoxical  things  necessary  and  most 
curious  of  them  all  was  the  necessity  of  showing 
Aubrey  that  she  loved  him.  Her  heart  warmed 
toward  him  as  it  hadn't  for  years.  She  felt  unac- 
countably grateful  to  Aubrey.  She  would  have  liked 
to  sit  at  his  side  whispering  love  names  and  caressing 
his  hair. 

"Well,  for  one  thing,  I've  been  writing." 

He  looked  at  her  calmly. 

"Writing?  You  mean  books?  Why,  I  didn't 
know!" 

Aubrey  smiled,  recovering  a  superiority  toward 
her.  But  his  heart  grew  heavy  almost  simultaneously. 
She  had  thrown  her  arms  about  him  and  was  ex- 
claiming, "Oh,  I'm  so  glad.  I'm  so  glad  you're 
writing  again,  Aubrey  darling.  I've  wanted  you  to 
so  much." 

He  pushed  her  away  slowly.     She  stood  pouting. 

"Now  I  can  see  where  I  take  a  back  seat,"  she 
sighed.  "Yes  sir,  you  won't  have  time  for  me  at  all. 
But  I  don't  care.  As  long  as  you're  happy,  darling, 
I'm  delighted.  I  want  you  to  be  happy  and  I  know  it 
makes  you  happy  to  write." 

When  she  left  the  room  Aubrey  remained  frown- 
ing after  her.  He  would  surprise  her.  He  would 
surprise  them  all.  He  would  publish  the  manuscript 
under  his  own  name.  It  would  create  a  sensation. 
It  would  bring  him  back  in  the  public  eye  more  glori- 
fied than  he  had  been  in  his  literary  heyday. 

In  a  few  days  the  idea  had  grown  to  obliterating 


GARGOYLES  275 

proportions.  For  a  time  he  abandoned  the  contempla- 
tion of  the  inner  Aubrey — the  gleaming-eyed  Thun- 
derer. This  other  was  nearer  reality — an  Aubrey 
hymned  as  a  rejuvenated  literary  figure.  Bat  he 
hesitated.  His  indecision  resulted  in  a  predicament. 
He  had  been  boasting  cautiously  of  his  new  work, 
letting  out  hints  as  to  its  character.  There  was 
Cressy,  a  literary  critic  and  a  member  of  the  club 
where  he  lunched.  He  had  talked  to  him  about  it. 

"I'm  surprised  myself,"  he  explained.  "I  was 
rather  uncertain  whether  I  could  come  back.  But 
the  rest  was  evidently  just  what  I  needed.  The  book 
isn't  at  all  in  my  old  style.  More  direct,  sincere  and 
entirely  simple.  You'll  like  it." 

Cressy  became  important  in  Aubrey's  predicament* 
Cressy  was  a  man  whom  Aubrey  identified  as  "the 
more  discriminating  public."  He  yearned  for  the 
approval  of  this  public.  And  as  his  decision  to  have 
his  father's  manuscript  printed  under  his  own  name 
grew,  Aubrey  sought  the  critic  out.  It  was  pleasant 
to  boast  to  Cressy,  to  feel  oneself  part  of  the  superior 
literary  world  Cressy  inhabited. 

Cressy  had  left  the  university  with  the  determina- 
tion to  write.  He  had,  however,  developed  into  a 
scholar,  using  a  knowledge  of  Greek  and  Latin  to 
acquire  a  baggage  of  classical  erudition.  For  ten 
years  he  had  been  contributing  literary  essays  to 
magazines  and  newspapers.  In  these  he  wagged  his 
head  sorrowfully  over  the  decline  of  letters.  He 
presented  an  impregnable  front  to  all  new  writers. 
The  names  of  new  novelists  in  the  book  lists  irritated 
him  precisely  as  the  names  of  new  celebrities  in  the 
society  columns  had  once  irritated  Mrs.  Basine.  He 


276  GARGOYLES 

resented  them  as  intruders  and  focused  a  pedantic 
wrath  on  them. 

In  his  own  mind  he  pictured  himself  as  being  in  a 
continual  state  of  revolt  against  the  inferiority  of 
modern  literature.  His  attacks,  however,  were 
entirely  a  defensive  gesture.  His  literary  point  of 
view  was  inspired  by  a  heroic  desire  to  annihilate 
contemporary  literature.  Contemporary  books  were 
an  insult  and  a  barrier  to  his  egoism.  He  battled 
against  them.  His  struggle  was  the  quixotic  effort 
to  assert  the  superiority  of  his  erudition.  New 
novels,  new  poetries,  new  philosophies  were  a  con- 
spiracy to  minimize  him  and  he  went  after  them  with 
the  zeal  of  one  engaged  in  tracking  criminals  to  their 
lair. 

At  forty-five  he  was  a  stern-faced  man  with  a  grey- 
ing mustache,  heavy  glasses  behind  .which  gleamed 
indignant  eyes.  He  was  impressive  looking.  People 
who  never  read  his  fulminations  still  felt  a  high  re- 
gard for  his  scholarship.  He  was  fearless  in  the  pro- 
nunciation of  French,  Latin  and  Greek  names  and 
invariably  functioned  as  arbiter  in  all  disputes  con- 
cerning classical  quotations  and  allusions. 

His  friendship  with  Aubrey  was  based  chiefly  on 
the  certainty  he  felt  that  Aubrey  was  an  inferior 
writer.  He  was  not  part  of  the  conspiracy  aimed 
at  the  minimization  of  Cressy,  the  scholar. 

"Well,  I'm  glad  to  hear  that,  Aubrey,"  he  congratu- 
lated his  friend.  "Very  glad.  Writing  is  a  delight 
few  people  understand  these  days." 

"I  know.  And  I  think  you'll  be  interested  particu- 
larly, John,  because  the  story  is  of  Eizabethan  Eng- 
land. I've  modeled  the  technique  on  Apuleius  and  the 
other  later  Roman  tale-tellers." 


GARGOYLES  277 

"Indeed!"  Cressy  bristled.  "That  should  be  inter- 
esting." 

"I'd  like  to  have  your  opinion  of  it,  John.  I've 
always  valued  what  you  say,  but  this  time  more  than 
ever.  Because  I  feel  I've  entered  your  field  and 
you're  guarding  the  fences  and  all  that." 

Cressy's  face  relaxed.  Quite  | right.  His  field. 
And  if  the  book  was  any  good  he  could  leap  forward 
as  its  authentic  champion  and  through  it  denounce 
the  base  modernism  of  the  day.  But  how  did  Aubrey 
who  was  a  superficial  dabbler  come  by  Elizabethan 
England? 

Aubrey  promised  to  produce  the  manuscript  within 
a  few  days  and  left  the  club.  A  July  sun  hammered 
at  the  streets.  The  heat  added  to  his  inward  discom- 
fort. It  was  too  hot  to  think.  Yet  it  was  necessary 
to  think.  Something  was  piling  up  and  unless  he 
thought  it  out  clearly,  it  would  fall  on  him. 

He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  publish  his  father's 
manuscript  as  his  own.  But  in  the  weeks  that  had 
passed  he  had  become  aware  that  he  was  not  going  to 
carry  out  his  intention.  There  were  things  that  kept 
him  from  it.  A  morbid  sense  that  his  father  was 
watching  him  had  grown  in  his  mind.  He  was  afraid. 
At  night  in  bed  he  conducted  himself  with  a  scrupu- 
lous politeness  toward  his  wife,  certain  that  his  every 
action  was  being  observed  by  his  father. 

There  was  another  restriction.  The  appearance  of 
the  manuscript  with  his  name  to  it  would  be  a  dis- 
tasteful anti-climax.  He  had  lost  himself  so  long  and 
so  ardently  in  the  creation  of  an  inner  Aubrey — the 
hawk-faced  Isaiah  redeeming  men — that  the  prospect 
of  a  frankly  sensual  volume  signed  by  Aubrey  Gil- 
christ  made  him  uncomfortable. 


278  GARGOYLES 

In  the  face  of  the  realities  that  would  ensue — the 
praise  for  instance,  of  the  healthy  animalism  of  the 
book — he  would  have  to  abandon  the  secret  charac- 
terization that  had  grown  almost  an  essential  of  his 
life.  He  could  not  go  ahead  redeeming  men  and  lift- 
ing them  toward  a  life  of  asceticism  while  people  were 
talking  and  writing  about  the  fact  that  Aubrey  Gil- 
christ  was  a  sensual  realist.  And  finally  there  was  a 
feeling  of  dishonesty,  inseparable  from  his  fear  of 
his  father,  but  adding  its  weight  to  the  restrictions. 

As  the  feeling  that  he  would  never  dare  to  publish 
the  manuscript  approached  a  certainty,  Aubrey  sought 
to  force  his  own  hand  by  telling  his  friends  of  the 
book,  boasting  of  it  and  promising  its  early  appear- 
ance. In  this  way  he  dimly  hoped  to  make  it  socially 
necessary  for  him  to  produce  the  volume  and  that 
finally  the  social  necessity  of  living  up  to  his  announce- 
ments would  overpower  the  inner  restraints.  He  was 
desperately  throwing  up  bridges  in  the  hope  of  being 
driven  across  them. 

The  dilemma  slipped  out  of  his  mind  as  he  walked 
toward  his  home.  It  was  distasteful.  The  finding 
of  the  manuscript  had,  in  fact,  upset  him  more  than 
anything  which  had  ever  happened.  As  he  neared  his 
residence  a  wilted  sensation  came  into  his  thought. 
He  had  been  trying  eagerly  to  recover  the  full  image 
of  the  inner  Aubrey  and  derive  a  few  hours  of  sur- 
cease in  the  easy  contemplation  of  that  great  hero's 
triumphs.  But  now  it  occurred  to  him  that  Judge 
Smith  and  John  Mackay,  his  partner,  Fanny  and  her 
relatives  and  all  his  world  were  buzzing  with  gossip 
about  his  return  to  literature.  The  dilemma  crawled 
wearily  back  into  his  mind. 

Yes,  they  talked  about  it  whenever  they  came  to- 


GARGOYLES  279 

gather.  There  was  Basine,  the  judge.  He  had 
seized  Aubrey's  hand  and  pumped  it  heartily  when  he 
heard  of  the  book. 

"That's  the  stuff.  I  like  a  man  who  can  come 
back.  Go  to  it,  Aubrey." 

Basine  was  a  bounder.  The  way  Fanny  and  the 
rest  of  them  idolized  him  was  disgusting.  His  mother- 
in-law — "Oh,  the  judge  told  me  the  most  fascinating 
things  about  the  situation  in  Washington. "  And  then 
for  an  hour,  an  idiotic  mumble  about  what  the  judge 
did,  what  he  said,  what  he  thought,  what  he  hoped. 
Nobody  ever  mentioned  Henrietta  or  the  children. 
As  if  their  existence  was  not  only  unimportant  but 
dubious.  Basine  was  an  entity.  He  needed  no 
background. 

Aubrey  wondered  why  his  thought  turned  to  his 
brother-in-law.  Whenever  he  felt  uncomfortable,  or 
found/  himself  in  a  distressing  situation,  his,  mind 
usually  busied  itself  with  comment  on  Basine.  Any- 
thing distressful  that  happened,  no  matter  how  re- 
mote from  the  judge,  always  seemed  to  remind 
Aubrey  of  the  man  and  recall  to  him  the  fact  that  he 
was  a  bounder  and  an  ass  and  entirely  unlikeable. 

He  entered  his  home  in  a  dejected  mood.  Voices 
attracted  him.  Fanny  was  talking  to  a  man.  He 
paused  before  the  opened  door. 

"Oh,  hello  Aubrey,"  Fanny  greeted  him.  She 
stood  up.  Aubrey  noticed  she  looked  pale.  Her 
eyes  seemed  to  follow  his  observation. 

"Isn't  it  hot  though?  I'm  almost  dead.  I'm  awfully 
glad  you  came  home.  You  remember  Mr.  Ramsey, 
don't  you?" 

"How  do  you  do,"  said  Aubrey.     "Yes,  I  think — " 


280  GARGOYLES 

"At  mother's.  Long  ago.  I'm  sure  you  met  him. 
He's  an  old  friend  of  the  family." 

"How  do  you  do,  sir,"  Ramsey  echoed,  rising.  The 
men  shook  hands.  Aubrey,  stared  at  the  dapper, 
high-strung  figure  with  its  flushed  face  and  cool 
attire  and  tried  to  remember  the  man. 

"If  you'll  pardon  me,"  he  smiled. 

"Certainly,  Aubrey." 

"See  you  again,  I  hope,"  said  Aubrey.  Ramsey 
assented  with  a  curious  enthusiasm,  accenting  the 
situation  uncomfortably.  Fanny  frowned  and  watched 
her  husband  walk  to  the  stairs.  As  his  steps  died 
the  two  returned  to  their  chairs. 

"Oh  it's  hot,"  Fanny  murmured.  "Can't  you  go 
away  till  next  month.  I'm  almost  beside  myself." 

Her  voice  was  low.    Ramsey  listened  with  disdain. 

"And  besides,"  she  continued  in  a  whisper,  "I've 
given  you  all  I  can  get.  I  haven't  any  more  money." 

"Money!"  Ramsey  snorted.  "I'm  not  talking  about 
money.  I'm  not  asking  for  any."  He  stood  up  and 
frowned  indignantly  at  her. 

"I  know,  but—" 

"I  just  dropped  in  for  a  talk." 

He  said  this  with  a  meaning  smile  and  lighted  a 
cigarette.  He  was  very  casual.  She  watched  him 
helplessly. 

"Oh,  why  beat  around  the  bush.  I'm  sick  of  it. 
I  can't  stand  it.  How  much  do  you  want?  I've 
given  you  three  thousand.  Surely  that's  ..." 

"I  don't  want  any,  thank  you,"  he  answered  with 
mysterious  sarcasm.  "Not  a  nickle." 

"Then  what  do  you  want?"  Her  voice  was  rising 
despite  her  fear  of  being  heard.  "This  is  the  fourth 
time  you've  .  .  .  you've  hounded  me." 


GARGOYLES  281 

"Oh,  I  hound  you?"     Again  the  mysterious  sar- 
casm. 

"If  you'd  only  tell  me  what  you  want." 

He  smiled  with  the  air  of  a  man  phenomenally 
at  ease  and  returned  to  his  chair. 

"Nothing.     Not  a  thing.    I  just  dropped  in  for  a 
chat,  that's  all." 

His  eyes  regarded  her  triumphantly.  Fanny  re- 
turned their  gaze.  He  was  crazy.  There  was  some- 
thing crazy  about  him.  He  had  called  her  on  the 
telephone  the  day  after  seeing  her  in  the  hotel  with 
Schroder.  She  had  gone  downtown  to  meet  him. 
The  whole  business  seemed  like  an  impossible  dream 
in  retrospect.  He  had  whined  and  begged  for  money. 
He  was  down  and  out,  living  from  hand  to  mouth, 
his  friends  gone,  his  clothes  in  rags.  ,  He  had  known 
her  father.  She  could  save  him.  And  he  had  never 
once  referred  to  the  incident  in  the  hotel  lobby. 
Neither  had  she.  The  conversation  had  been  purely 
a  needy  friend  and  a  philanthropically  inclined  woman. 
She  had  asked  him  how  much  he  needed  and  he 
answered  $1,500  would  start  him.  A  week  later  he 
came  to  her  completely  rehabilitated — an  elderly 
looking  fop  swinging  a  cane  and  bristling  with  enthus- 
iasms. 

Another  $1,500  had  increased  his  enthusiasm.  He 
came  a  third  time  to  report  that  he  had  found  employ- 
ment. She  barely  listened.  Something  had  happened 
to  Ramsey. 

Now  as  he  sat  smiling  sarcasms  at  her  she  realized 
what  it  was.  Her  knowledge  of  the  man  was  casual 
but  the  thing  that  had  happened  was  unmistakable. 
He  no  longer  wanted  money  from  her.  He  was 
blackmailing  her  merely  because  it  gave  him  a  sense 


282  GARGOYLES 

of  power.  They  had  never  mentioned  Schroder  or 
the  lobby  incident. 

She  regarded  him  in  silence  and  the  understanding 
of  the  man  slowly  nauseated  her.  His  polite  and 
affable  smiling,  his  cockiness  and  his  suavity — all  these 
were  part  of  a  pose.  He  called  merely  to  see  her 
wince  and  because  her  wincing  filled  him  with  this 
sense  of  power.  And  he  would  go  on  like  that.  But 
she  dared  not  challenge  him.  He  knew  about  the 
day  with  Schroder.  He  had  never  mentioned  it  and 
now  he  tried  to  pretend  this  his  dominance  over  her 
had  nothing  to  do  with  blackmail  or  Schroder.  He 
tried  to  pretend  it  was  because  of  something  else — 
something  involved  and  mysterious. 

"Are  you  going  to  stay  forever,"  she  murmured. 

"Perhaps  for  dinner,"  he  answered.  Fanny  sighed. 
There  was  her  mother-in-law — a  stone  faced  woman 
with  gimlet  eyes.  Old,  ferreting  eyes.  She  would 
sense  something.  And  if  they  found  out.  She  shud- 
dered. Her  eyes  implored. 

"Please,  Tom,"  she  whispered.  "You  .  .  .  you're 
torturing  me." 

"Oh  no,  not  at  all,"  he  answered  with  an  idiotic 
cheerfulness,  raising  his  eyebrows  and  pursing  his  lips 
in  surprise.  He  was  like  a  farce  actor.  She  stood 
up  and  came  to  his  side.  Her  hands  rested  on  his 
shoulder. 

"Won't  you  leave  me  alone?"  she  whispered  again. 
"I  feel  ill."  , 

He  looked  at  her  with  concern. 

"Indeed,"  he  said.     "I'm  awfully  sorry." 

He  would  go  on  like  this  forever.  It  would  always 
grow  worse.  He  wanted  to  make  a  victim  of  her. 
He  was  like  a  crazy  man  with  an  obsession.  His 


GARGOYLES  283 

suavity  and  politeness  almost  made  her  scream.     She 
covered  her  face  and  wept. 

"There,  there,"  he  consoled  her.  She  had  dropped 
into  a  chair  and  he  was  patting  her  back.  "It  must 
be  the  heat.  The  heat,  don't  you  think?  Oh  well, 
I'll  go  way  now.  Are  you  going  to  be  home  Tuesday 
evening?" 

She  made  no  answer.  Ramsey  stood  watching  her, 
a  smile  in  his  eyes.  As  she  continued  to  weep  he 
appeared  to  grow  more  and  more  elated.  A  sternness 
entered  his  voice. 

"Come  now,"  he  ordered  her,  "sit  up." 

She  obeyed. 

"It's  ridiculous,"  he  continued.  She  nodded  help- 
lessly. "I'll  see  you  Tuesday  evening,"  he  added. 
There  was  a  pause.  Then,  "There's  something  I'd 
like  to  discuss  with  you.  Very  important.  Don't 
forget.  Tuesday  evening." 

He  walked  out.  Fanny  watched  him  to  the  door. 
A  rage  came  to  her.  He  was  play-acting.  He  was 
making  fun  of  her,  of  her  fear  of  exposure.  Because 
he  was  crazy.  He  didn't  want  money.  He  wanted  to 
bulldoze  and  torture  her.  He  wanted  her  to  think 
he  was  somebody — that's  why  he  did  it. 

She  stood  up  and  watched  him  from  the  window 
as  he  walked  down  the  street.  A  dapper,  good- 
natured  figure  smiling  with  mysterious  condescension 
upon  the  houses  he  passed.  She  rushed  to  her  room 
and  locked  the  door.  Something  would  have  to 
happen.  She  had  not  talked  to  Schroder  about  Ramsey 
since  he  left  her  in  the  cab  that  first  day.  She  would 
ask  him  what  to  do.  No,  that  would  make  it  worse. 
He  might  be  like  Ramsey.  She  lay  dry-eyed  and 
pondering.  The  thought  slowly  grew  in  her — she 


284  GARGOYLES 

would  tell  her  brother.  George  would  be  able  to 
figure  out  some  way  to  rid  her  of  this  blackmailer. 
She  would  tell  him  everything  and  explain  to  him 
how  she  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer. 

She  lay  quietly  improvising  her  conversation  with 
her  brother.  This  brought  a  relief  and  she  closed 
her  eyes  with  a  sigh. 

19 

The  ballroom  of  the  Hotel  LaSalle  had  been  care- 
fully prepared  for  the  opening  of  the  Vice  Investigat- 
ing Commission's  sessions.  A  corps  of  janitors  had 
been  active  for  two  days  introducing  folding  chairs, 
cuspidors,  tables  and  wastebaskets.  Chairs  of  vary- 
ing degrees  of  importance  had  been  assembled  for 
the  (witnesses,  attorneys,  distinguished  visitors  and 
members  of  the  press. 

The  Vice  Investigating  Commission  had  been  ap- 
pointed by  the  governor  of  the  state.  It  was  com- 
prised of  ten  members  including  its  chairman,  Judge 
Basine.  The  press  with  its  instinctive  dramaturgy 
had  centered  its  comment  around  the  single  figure 
of  Basine.  The  nine  state  senators  who,  as  a  result 
of  political  wire  pulling,  had  wormed  their  way  into 
the  Commission  found  themselves  lost  in  the  shadow 
of  Basine. 

It  was  the  Basine  Commission.  As  the  time  for  its 
sessions  approached,  the  press,  having  by  its  own 
headline  reiteration  of  the  man's  name  impressed  it- 
self with  the  prestige  and  popularity  of  Basine,  aban- 
doned itself  without  further  scruples  to  its  convenient 
mania  of  simplifications.  Thus  the  preliminary  delib- 
erations of  the  Commission  were  headlined,  "Basine 
to  Summon  Department  Store  Heads."  "Basine  to 


GARGOYLES  285 

Plumb  Vice  Causes/'  "Basine  Charges  Dance  Hall 
Evil." 

The  statements  elaborately  prepared  by  the  nine 
senators  were  invariably  attributed  in  the  newspaper 
columns  to  Basine.  The  hopes,  plans,  fears,  threats 
of  the  Vice  Commission  were  blazoned  to  the  world 
as  the  mingled  emotions  of  Basine.  Photographs  of 
Basine,  his  wife,  children,  and  home,  illumined  the 
papers  and  within  a  week  the  name  Basine  had,  in 
the  public  mind,  become  innately  synonymous  with 
an  immemorial  crusade  against  vice. 

The  crusade  itself  remained  as  yet  a  vague  but 
promising  morsel  in  the  city's  thought.  The  news- 
papers, enabled  by  the  event  to  indulge  themselves 
more  legitimately  than  usual  in  discussing  the  ever 
fascinating  problem  of  sex  from  the  unimpeachable 
standpoint  of  reform,  leaped  greedily  to  the  bait. 

Photographs  of  young  women  boarding  street  cars 
and  revealing  stretches  of  leg  were  printed  under  the 
caption,  "Indecent  Way  to  Board  Car,  Says  Basine." 
Alongside  were  photographs,  less  interesting,  but 
vital  to  the  moral  of  the  layout,  showing  women 
boarding  street  cars  without  revealing  their  legs.  The 
caption  over  them  read,  "Correct  Way  to  Board  Car, 
Says  Basine."  The  text  explained  that  the  careless- 
ness and  immodesty  of  young  girls,  according  to 
Basine,  frequently  were  the  devil's  ally  and  that  the 
Basine  Commission  called  upon  all  young  women  who 
had  the  welfare  of  the  race  at  heart  to  board  street 
cars  in  the  correct  way. 

Photographs  of  young  women  in  Indecent  Bathing 
Costumes  appeared  accompanied  by  denunciations 
from  prominent  clergymen  and  contrasted,  with  edi- 
torial indignation,  to  photographs  of  Decent  Bathing 


286  GARGOYLES 

Costumes  recommended  by  prominent  clergymen. 
Photographs  of  abandoned  young  women  who  effected 
garter  purses,  slit  skirts;  who  crossed  their  legs  when 
they  sat  down  were  offered.  These  were  accompanied 
by  outraged  pronouncements  against  such  immodesties 
from  prominent  statesmen  and  clergymen. 

A  private  auxiliary  crusade  started  by  another 
enterprising  newspaper  resulted  in  a  series  of  photo- 
graphs of  nude  paintings  to  be  seen  in  the  shop  win- 
dows of  the  loop  and  Michigan  avenue,  and  called 
for  immediate  legislation  designed  to  remove  this 
source  of  moral  danger. 

Photographs  of  the  deplorably  scanty  costumes 
worn  by  musical  comedy  ,  choruses  and  dancers  in 
general;  photographs  pointing  out  with  mute  alarm 
the  decline  of  modesty  as  instanced  in  the  comparison 
of  the  fashions  of  yesteryear  with  the  fashions  of 
today;  photographs  of  dance-hall  scenes  showing 
couples  amorously  embraced,  cheeks  together,  bodies 
riveted  to  each  other — these  and  others  too 
numerous  to  tabulate  cried  for  the  reader's  indignant 
attention  out  of  the  newspaper  columns. 

Every  conceivable  variant  of  denunciation  which 
might  be  legitimately  accompanied  by  a  photograph 
of  a  woman  or  a  group  of  women,  received  publica- 
tion in  interviews  with  pious  divines,  alarmed  states- 
men and  serious-minded  welfare  workers.  The  news- 
papers, convinced  by  the  twenty  and  thirty  per  cent 
increases  in  their  week's  circulation  figures  that  the 
crusade  was  a  vital  part  of  the  awakened  moral  sense 
of  the  city,  devoted  themselves  with  heroic  disregard 
of  party  politics  to  acclaiming  the  Basine  commission. 

Basine  found  himself  troubled  by  his  sky-rocketing 
prestige.  He  went  to  bed  the  first  night  as  a  "judicial 


GARGOYLES  287 

inquirer  into  the  causes  of  vice."  He  arose  in  the 
morning  confronted  with  the  fact  that  he  was  a 
"fearless  Galahad  on  Moral  Quest."  Before  retiring 
again  he  found  himself  a  "Vice  Solon  Attacking  Civic 
Corruption."  And  on  the  following  morning  he  was 
"Basine,  Undaunted,  Flays  Vice  Ring." 

On  the  day  before  the  opening  session  he  occupied 
his  chambers  and  tried  to  dictate  his  way  through  a 
mass  of  correspondence  that  had  accumulated.  There 
were  thousands  of  letters  from  determined  church- 
goers, mothers,  fathers,  brothers,  sisters,  all  teeming 
with  excited  advice,  prayers  for  success  and  redundant 
congratulations.  Ruth  waited  with  her  pencil  on  her 
note  book,  her  knee  pressed  warmly  against  his  thigh 
and  her  eyes  looking  pensively  out  of  the  window  at 
the  summer  day, 

Basine  had  obtained  a  three  weeks'  vacation  in 
order  to  devote  himself  to  the  work  of  the  commis- 
sion. His  words  came  unevenly  as  he  dictated. 
Newspaper  headlines  glared  at  him  from  the  desk — 
"Modern  Lincoln  to  Free  Vice  Slaves."  "Basine 
to  Determine  Why  Girls  Go  Wrong."  "Basine 
Threatens  Fearless  Quiz  Into  Resorts." 

His  mind  was  alive  with  other  headlines.  Basine 
.  .  .  Basine  .  .  .  the  city  was  throbbing  with  his  name. 
He  had  managed  to  maintain  a  skepticism  for  several 
days.  Doris  had  kept  his  mind  distressingly  clear 
with  her  comments.  And  her  friend,  Levine.  Her 
words  had  continued  in  his  thought  .  .  .  "marvelous, 
George.  The  public  is  wallowing  in  an  orgy  of  mor- 
bidity. I  confess,  it's  beyond  my  pleasantest  expec- 
tations. .  .  ." 

He  had  protested.  She  was  wrong.  Indignation 
was  being  stirred.  People  were  realizing  the  menace 


288  GARGOYLES 

of  underpaid  working  girls  and  unlicensed  dance 
halls.  His  sister  smiled  wearily.  "Don't  be  an  ass, 
or  you'll  spoil  it  all.  Keep  your  head  clear.  Follow 
the  newspapers  and  outwit  them  in  cynicism." 

And  then  Levine.  He  recalled  the  man's  words 
and  edited  them  into  a  rebuking  essay — "The  public  is 
revelling  in  the  salaciousness  of  nude  photographs, 
raw  statements  and  your  anti-vice  propaganda. 
They're  utilizing  virtue  as  a  cloak  for  the  sensually 
tantalizing  discussion  of  immorality.  Their  indigna- 
tion is  an  excuse  by  which  they  apologize  for  their 
individual  erotic  thrills  by  denouncing  evil  in  others. 
Yes,  the  mysterious  others  identified  as  vice  rings, 
white  slavers  and  immorality  in  general.  The  whole 
business  is  a  cunning  debauch  offered  newspaper 
readers,  a  debauch  which  enables  them  to  appear  to 
themselves  and  to  each  other  not  as  debauchees  but  as 
high  crusaders  behind  the  banners  of  Basine.  And 
the  good  clergymen  and  the  statesmen  and  the  wel- 
fare workers  rushing  into  print  with  revelations  of 
immorality  are  inspired  by  nothing  more  intricate 
than  a  desire  for  publicity  and  an  ambition  to  pose 
before  the  public  in  the  guise  of  fellow  crusaders  and 
civic  benefactors.  Their  benefactions,  you  see,  con- 
sist of  offering  the  public  lurid  sex  statistics  over 
which  it  may  gloat  in  secret.  And  in  the  meantime, 
over  these  benefactions,  over  these  exciting  sex  statis- 
tics and  sexy  photos  and  over  the  people  who  discuss 
them  and  roll  them  over  on  their  tongue  is  thrown  a 
protective  fog  of  indignation." 

Basine  had  derived  from  these  talks  in  his  sister's 
studio  an  uncomfortable  vision.  But  the  vision  had 
gradually  dissolved  in  his  mind.  On  the  day  he  had 
awakened  to  find  himself  a  "Moral  Champion 


GARGOYLES  289 

Promises  Vice  Clean-up"  the  dignity  and  high  responsi- 
bility of  his  task  had  overcome  him.  What  appeared 
to  him  an  authentic  fervor  mounted  in  his  veins.  Hyp- 
notized by  the  adulatory  excitement  surrounding  his 
name,  he  acquired  forthwith  the  characterization 
foisted  on  him  by  the  headlines.  Basine  .  .  .  Basine 
.  .  .  the  city  throbbed  with  his  name.  The  hope  of  a 
great  moral  rejuvenation  was  centered  upon  him. 
Another  St.  Patrick  was  to  drive  the  snakes  of  evil 
out  of  the  community.  Another  Lincoln  was  to  do 
something — something  equally  ennobling  to  himself 
and  his  fellowmen. 

The  change  effected  his  relations  with  Ruth.  For 
a  month  he  had  been  engaged  in  a  species  of  sinless 
amour.  Long  walks,  long  talks,  long  embraces  behind 
the  locked  doors  of  his  chambers  had  resulted  in 
nothing  more  tangible  than  a  series  of  headaches  and 
sleepless  nights  or  unusual  tenderness  towards  his 
piquantly  startled  wife. 

He  had  excused  his  infidelity  to  Ruth .  while  embrac- 
ing Henrietta — he  regarded  his  exaggerated  interest 
in  his  wife  as  a  betrayal  of  the  girl — by  assuring  him- 
self that  it  was  for  Ruth's  own  good.  It  lessened  his 
desire  for  her  and  thus  decreased  the  moral  danger 
into  which  their  love  was  leading  her.  In  addition 
to  this  it  was,  of  course,  a  convenient  substitute  for 
the  emotions  Ruth's  embraces  aroused  in  him  and 
for  the  sense  of  guilt  which  invariably  accompanied 
these  embraces. 

When  he  became  a  crusader  Basine  felt  a  further 
confusion  in  his  attitude  toward  Ruth.  He  sat  now 
attempting  to  dictate  letters.  Despite  the  amiable 
blur  which  fame  had  introduced  into  his  thought  and 
which  for  the  past  two  weeks  had  obscured  the  details 


290  GARGOYLES 

of  his  day,  he  found  himself  studying  the  situation 
before  him.  The  situation  was  Ruth.  He  would 
have  preferred  ignoring  it.  The  scent  which  came 
from  her  summery  shirt  waist  and  the  coils  of  her 
black  hair,  thrilled  him.  Her  clear  youthful  face, 
the  contours  of  her  figure,  the  familiarity  of  her  eyes 
— all  this  was  pleasing  and  satisfying. 

But  the  new  Basine — the  crusader,  felt  ill  at  ease. 
He  must  explain  something  to  Ruth,  explain  to  her 
that  their  love  was  no  more  than  an  ennobling 
comradeship  and  must  never  be  more  than  that,  a 
comradeship  which  would  bring  them  together  in  this 
great  cause  of  moral  rejuvenation.  He  didn't  want 
it  put  that  crudely.  But  the  idea  kept  repeating  itself 
in  his  head.  He  kept  thinking  of  what  Doris  and  her 
friend  Levine  would  say  if  they  ever  found  out  that 
in  the  midst  of  the  Vice  Investigation,  its  chairman 
had  been  carrying  on  with  his  secretary.  It  was  dis- 
tasteful and  needed  immediate  attention. 

He  took  her  hand  and  Ruth  laid  down  her  pencil. 
She  smiled  expectantly  at  him.  Since  she  had  first 
kissed  Basine  a  month  ago  she  had  been  trying  to 
understand  the  situation.  The  thought  of  him  pre- 
occupied her  and  this  made  her  certain  she  loved 
him.  His  caresses  aroused  her  senses  and  left  her 
wondering  what  was  going  to  happen. 

At  times  she  reasoned  coolly  with  herself.  She 
was  in  love  with  a  married  man  and  the  most  she 
could  hope  for  was  to  become  his  mistress  and  end 
up  by  making  a  fool  of  herself.  Or  perhaps  of  both 
of  them.  She  was,  in  a  measure,  grateful  for  the 
manner  in  which  he  respected  her  virtue.  But,  with 
his  arms  around  her  and  his  keen  face  alive  with  pas- 


GARGOYLES  291 

sion  and  his  lips  on  hers,  his  reserve  struck  her  as 
uncomplimentary  and  illogical. 

She  resented  the  semi-abandonment  of  his  senses 
because  of  the  unfulfillment — a  physical  and  spiritual 
unfulfillment  which  left  her  distracted.  It  appeared 
to  her  later,  when  the  distraction  ebbed,  as  an  affront 
to  her  vanity.  She  was  uncertain  when  thinking  of  it 
coolly  whether  she  would  give  herself  to  him.  But 
somehow  the  affair  seemed  unreal,  at  times  even  a 
little  like  some  school-girl  flirtation,  because  he  failed 
to  ask  her.  She  had  always  prided  herself  upon  her 
honesty  and  spent  hours  now  debating  with  herself 
just  how  much  she  loved  him  and  if  she  loved  him  at 
all  and  why  she  loved  him.  The  idea  of  leaving  his 
employ,  however,  never  occurred  to  her.  The  cau- 
tious sensualisms  of  which  she  had  become  an  excited 
victim,  held  her.  There  was  in  these  incompleted 
manceuverings  behind  the  locked  doors  a  curious  fas- 
cination. 

"What  is  it,  George?" 

He  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 

"Whew,  I'm  snowed  under."  His  hands  pushed 
the  correspondence  from  him. 

"You  mustn't  tire  yourself,  dear." 

He  nodded  and  his  face  assumed  a  serious  air. 

"I  would  like  to  talk  over  the  work." 

"The  Commission?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh,  I  think  it's  going  to  be  a  wonderful  success, 
George?" 

"And  you  can  help  me." 

He  squeezed  her  hand.  This  was  the  note  he  had 
been  searching  for  in  his  mind.  He  hesitated  a  mo- 
ment, nevertheless,  feeling  an  irritating  incongruity 


292  GARGOYLES 

in  what  he  desired  to  say.  But  the  headlines  glaring 
at  him  strengthened  him.  He  was  Basine  the  Moral 
Champion.  The  city  was  throbbing  with  his  name. 
A  hope  centered  about  his  name. 

"The  work  is  going  to  be  hard,"  he  began.  "I  in- 
tend to  go  to  the  bottom  of  the  thing.  The  Com- 
mission after  its  hearings  will  be  able  to  recommend 
legislation  that  will  .  .  .  that  will  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  I  know  George." 

"Wipe  out,  or  at  least  go  a  long  way  toward  wiping 


out  . 


His  mind  seemd  to  balk  at  the  sentence.  The  word 
"immorality"  withheld  itself  from  his  lips. 

"I'll  be  glad  to  help  where  I  can,  as  you  know, 
dear,"  she  whispered. 

"I've  subpoenaed  all  the  department  store  heads  to 
bring  their  books  into  court,  I  mean  to  the  hearing, 
and  reveal  exactly  what  the  wage  scale  for  shop  girls 
is.  I'm  convinced  it's  impossible  for  a  girl  to  keep 
decent  on  $6  and  $7  a  week." 

He  thought  of  the  fact  that  Ruth  was  receiving 
$30  a  week  and  grew  confused. 

"You  can  help  me  a  lot,  dear,"  he  added  hurriedly. 

Ruth  stood  up.  This  standing  up  had  become  a 
habit  between  them.  When  they  were  sitting  holding 
hands,  if  she  stood  up,  he  would  draw  her  to  him  and 
she  would  lower  herself  into  his  lap.  They  had  de- 
veloped a  series  of  similar  ruses  to  which  they  both 
adapted  themselves  like  well  rehearsed  actors  and 
which  had  for  their  object  the  bringing  them  into 
positions  convenient  for  kisses  and  embraces. 

As  she  sat  down  in  his  lap  the  unhappy  thought 
crossed  Basine's  mind  that  he  was  chairman  of  a  com- 
mission sworn  to  wipe  out  just  such  incidents  as  this 


GARGOYLES  293 

from  the  city's  life.  He  winced  and  her  arm  around 
his  neck  felt  uncomfortable.  But  he  remembered 
that  both  doors  were  locked  and  the  image  of  himself 
as  a  crusader  partially  vanished.  They  kissed  and 
his  hand  slipped  down  to  her  side  and  toyed  with 
the  hem  of  her  skirt. 

"Do  you  love  me,  George?    Tell  me." 

"Yes.    Why  do  you  ask  that?" 

"Oh  because.  Sometimes  I  think  you're  so  busy 
that  you  haven't  time  to  love." 

He  was  pleased  by  this.  Flattered,  he  answered: 
"I  have  time  for  nothing  else.  Everything  else  is 
sort  of  part  of  it.  My  work,  the  commission — it's  all 
you,  dearest." 

His  hand  was  on  her,  caressingly.  He  endeavored 
to  remove  the  significance  of  the  gesture  by  patting 
her  knee  as  one  might  pat  the  head  of  a  little  child, 
and  whispering  with  an  involved  frankness: 

"You're  so  nice,  darling." 

They  had  sat  like  this  before,  sometimes  for  an 
hour,  whispering  to  each  other.  Their  whispering 
would  go  on  for  a  time,  even  their  kisses.  This  time, 
however,  she  murmured  unexpectedly: 

"Don't,  George." 

He  was  surprised. 

"Why  not?" 

"Because,  we  mustn't." 

"But  why?" 

"Oh  please  .  .  .  dont!" 

Her  objection  seemed  to  inspire  him  in  a  way  her 
previous  silences  had  failed  to  do.  He  grew  indig- 
nant. 

"Please,  don't!" 

"But  why,  dearest?    I  love  you." 


294  GARGOYLES 

She  paused  and  he  looked  at  her,  aloof  arguments 
in  his  eyes  as  if  he  were  pleading  not  in  his  own  be- 
half but  in  behalf  of — a  somebody  else,  a  client.  His 
knees  were  trembling  under  her  weight.  The  crusade 
had  disappeared.  A  memory  of  it  lingered  but  in  an 
amusing  way.  He  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  headlines 
on  his  desk  and  grinned.  There  was  something 
maliciously  unreal  about  life  that  one  could  enjoy. 

Suddenly  he  felt  her  soften.  Her  lips>  brushed 
against  his  ear  and  her  arm  tightened  convulsively 
around  him. 

uPlease  no,"  she  murmured. 

Her  alarm  delighted  him.  It  was  a  final  barrier, 
this  alarm.  It  enabled  him  to  enjoy  the  new  con- 
quest without  having  to  be  logical,  without  having  to 
go  on.  Her  alarm  now  was  a  barrier  to  be  played 
with  for  a  moment  and  then  utilized.  He  would  stop 
in  a  moment  but  now  he  could  play  with  her  fear,  as 
if  he  were  intent  upon  overcoming  it. 

"Please,"  she  whispered,  "don't .  .  .  it's  no  use." 

The  final  words  irritated  him.  No  use!  He  felt 
offended,  as  if  he  had  been  trickily  defeated  in  an 
argument.  What  was  no  use?  What  did  she  mean? 

"George,  please,  listen  to  me.    Oh  please  .  .  ." 

That  was  better.  But  it  had  come  just  in  time.  He 
could  retreat  now  with  honor.  For  an  instant  a  panic 
had  filled  him.  Impossible  to  retreat  on  the  explana- 
tion "it's  no  use."  Because — well,  because  the  words 
were  a  challenge,  not  an  attack.  But  now  it  was  easy. 
He  stiffened  in  his  chair.  Ruth  slipped  from  his  lap 
and  stood  up,  flushed.  She  straightened  her  hair  and 
looked  away.  Basine  felt  annoyed  with  her.  She 
had  almost  taken  him  by  surprise.  She  had  almost 
surrendered  when  the  tactics  of  the  game  called  for 


GARGOYLES  295 

her  to  protest  and  thus  cover  his  retreat  by  making 
it  the  result  of  her  protests.  And  not  of  his — well,  of 
his  determination  not  to  forget  his  position. 

But  he  would  restore  the  tactic  she  had  momentari- 
ly abandoned. 

"Excuse  me,"  he  muttered,  a  plea  in  his  voice,  "I 
didn't  realize.  I  didn't  realize  what  I  was  doing. 
Forgive  me,  dearest." 

He  recovered  his  sense  of  self  respect  that,  oddly 
enough,  had  deserted  him,  in  making  this  apology. 
The  apology  meant  that  he  had  ceased  only  because 
she  had  protested  too  violently.  And  not  because  he 
had  been  afraid. 

Ruth  listened  with  a  faint  smile  on  her  moist  lips. 
She  wanted  to  laugh. 

"I  didn't  mean  anything — really,"  he  was  saying. 
"You  must  forgive  me.  Come  here — please."  An 
air  of  soothing  innocence  rose  from  his  voice  and 
manner.  He  was  reassuring  her  that  he  wasn't 
dangerous,  that  he  wouldn't  repeat  these  intimacies. 
The  desire  to  laugh  continued  in  her.  Excuse  him! 
For  what?  The  laugh  almost  left  her  throat.  She 
had  given  herself  to  him  .  .  .  and  he  had  solemnly  re- 
treated for  no  reason  at  all. 

She  continued  to  smile.  For  the  first  time  the 
distraction  his  caresses  inspired  in  her  was  absent. 
Instead  she  felt  quite  normal.  She  was  becoming 
indignant  but  normal.  And  there  was  amusement  in 
her  anger.  She  sat  down  and  picked  up  her  pencil. 
She  was  amused.  She  looked  at  a  man  who  had  be- 
come almost  a  stranger  and  nodded — forgiveness. 

"Of  course,  George,"  she  said.    "I  know  you  didn't 
mean  anything,  but  .  .  ." 


296  GARGOYLES 

He  frowned.  Her  tone  angered  him.  She  was 
mocking. 

"Hadn't  you  better  answer  some  of  these?"  she 
asked.  Basine  pursed  up  his  lips  importantly. 

"You  will  be  a  great  help,  dear,"  he  answered. 
"Some  day  I  want  to  talk  about  something  with  you. 
But  .  .  .  but  matters  are  too  rushed  now.  I'm  almost 
snowed  under,  I  swear."  This  was  putting  it  all  on 
a  different  basis.  He  was  a  busy  man.  That's  why 
he  had  retreated.  He  was  needed  for  other  things 
of  vital  interest  to  the  community.  He  felt  uncom- 
fortable, despite  the  dignity  of  his  frown.  She  was 
regarding  him  with  placid  eyes.  He  turned  to  one  of 
the  newspapers  whose  headlines  were  proclaiming  the 
plans,  and  threats  of  Basine.  There  was  the  real 
Basine — in  the  headline.  This  other  one,  the  one 
who  had  fumbled  and  messed  things  up  with  a  girl 
— he  ended  his  thought  with  annoyance.  He  despised 
himself.  For  a  moment  he  glowered  at  her.  He 
would  stand  up  and  seize  her.  She  would  realize,  then, 
what  his  forebearance  for  her  sake  had  been.  His 
anger  continued  in  his  voice  as  he  resumed  the  tedious 
dictation : 
"Dear  Governor: 

"Everything  is  prepared  for  the  opening  next  Mon- 
day. I  have  arranged  special  seats  for  any  of  your 
friends  who  may  desire  to  attend.  We  are  ready  to 
launch  an  efficient  and  systematic  inquiry  into  the 
causes  of  the  vice  conditions  in  our  city  as  well  as 
state.  Please  .  .  ." 

20 

The  excitedly  heralded  Vice  Investigation  which, 
after  several  thousand  centuries  of  criminal  neglect, 


GARGOYLES  297 

was  to  take  up  the  question  of  immorality,  discover 
its  causes,  determine  its  remedies  and  put  an  end  to 
this  blot  upon  civilization,  opened  to  a  crowded 
house.  The  folding  chairs  introduced  into  the  ball 
room  by  the  corps  of  janitors  were  occupied.  But 
they  were  insufficient.  The  corps  of  janitors  had 
underestimated  the  extent  of  the  public  enthusiasm. 

Men  and  women  aflame  with  the  ardor  of  crusade 
battled  for  place  within  hearing  distance  of  the  wit- 
nesses who  were  to  recount,  under  careful  examination, 
just  why  girls  went  wrong.  The  ball  room  was 
capable  of  seating  a  thousand.  Another  thousand 
pried  their  ways  through  the  doors  and  stood  six  and 
seven  deep  against  the  ornamental  walls.  The  some- 
what mythical  portraits  of  French  noblemen,  Cupids, 
Watteau  ladies  of  leisure  smiled  urbanely  out  of  the 
blue  and  white  panels  over  their  heads.  The  corridor 
outside  the  large  room  was  thronged  with  still  a  third 
thousand  pushing,  prying,  squeezing,  and  perspiring 
all  in  vain.  The  police  had  been  summoned. 

The  press  in  its  first  pen  picture  of  the  stirring 
scene  drew  a  significant  distinction.  Those  within 
the  ball  room  who  had  successfully  stormed  the  doors 
and  clawed  their  way  into  the  weltering  pulp  of 
figures  were  identified  as  "a  distinguished  audience  of 
society  women,  welfare  workers,  civic  leaders  and 
citizens  come  to  lend  their  moral  support  to  the  great 
crusade." 

Those  who  had  failed  in  their  efforts  to  gain  en- 
trance and  who  clung  with  patient  heroism  to  the 
corridor,  the  lobby  downstairs  and  even  the  boiling 
pavements  outside,  were  dismissed  scornfully  as  ua 
crowd  of  the  morbidly  curious,  hungry  for  the  sensa- 
tional details  promised  by  the  investigators." 


298  GARGOYLES 

At  ten  o'clock  the  Commission  itself  arrived.  The 
perspiring  police  opened  a  passage  through  the  throng 
and  the  commission  filed  to  its  place  at  the  table 
waiting  at  the  end  of  the  room.  Newspaper  photogra- 
phers immediately  leaped  into  concerted  action.  The 
boom  and  smoke  of  flashlights  arose. 

Delays  and  preliminaries  followed.  The  room 
grew  terrifically  hot.  Collars  began  to  wilt,  faces  to 
turn  red,  feet  to  burn.  But  the  delays  continued.  It 
was  impossible  to  find  out  why  there  was  delay.  The 
crowd  grew  impatient.  A  racket  of  voices  stuffed 
the  room.  Something  had  gone  wrong  .  .  .  why  didn't 
they  start  .  .  .  they  weren't  doing  anything  .  .  .  what 
were  they  waiting  for  .  .  .  the  public  was  grumbling. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  the  commissioners  were  playing 
for  time.  A  species  of  stage  fright  had  overcome 
them.  Each  of  them  had  arrived  filled  with  a  sense 
of  high  purpose  and  benign  power.  They  were  men 
upon  whom  the  burden  of  lifting  an  age-old  blot  from 
the  face  of  civilization  had  fallen.  They  had  felt 
no  hesitancy  in  the  matter.  They  were  going  to 
tackle  the  situation  like  Americans — red-blooded 
Americans  in  whose  heart  burned  the  unfaltering  light 
of  idealism.  There  was  going  to  be  no  shilly-shally- 
ing, no  highfalutin  theorizings.  They  were  going  to 
the  bottom  of  this  matter  without  fear  or  favor. 
They  were  going  to  find  out  just  why  girls  went  wrong 
and,  having  found  this  out,  they  were  going  to  re- 
move the  cause,  or  causes  if  there  were  more  than 
one,  and  thus  put  an  end  to  immorality — at  least 
in  the  great  commonwealth  of  Illinois. 

They  were  ten  undaunted  crusaders  inspired  with 
the  unfaltering  consciousness  of  their  country's  power 
and  rectitude.  In  fact,  it  was  not  the  Basine  Commis- 


GARGOYLES  299 

sion  which  pushed  through  the  throng  but  the  Tra- 
dition of  the  United  States,  the  Revered  Memory  of 
Abraham  Lincoln,  George  Washington  and  Nathan 
Hale,  the  Army  that  had  never  been  licked,  the 
Government  of  the  People,  by  the  People  and  for 
the  People,  that  was  better  than  any  other  govern- 
ment on  the  face  of  the  earth.  These  walked  behind 
the  policemen  through  the  throng. 

But  there  was  a  human  undertone  to  this  Tradition 
about  to  grapple  with  the  problem  of  Vice.  Like 
Basine,  each  of  the  nine  had  at  the  beginning  felt  a 
slight  discomfort.  Their  own  pasts  and  even  presents 
had  risen  in  their  thought  to  deride  them.  They  were, 
alas,  not  without  sin  themselves.  The  dramatic  co- 
incidence was  even  possible  that  one  of  the  witnesses 
called  might  point  to  a  commissioner  as  the  author 
of  her  ruin.  This,  in  an  oblique  way,  disturbed  them. 
It  lay  like  an  indigestible  fear  upon  the  stomach  of 
incarnated  Tradition.  But  as  the  patriotic  fervor 
mounted  in  them,  they  were  able  somewhat  to  master 
this  selfish  fear.  Debating  the  matter  vaguely  in  the 
silence  of  their  own  bedrooms  they  had  achieved  an 
identical  triumph. 

Yes,  they  were  after  all  only  men.  They  had  sinned, 
were  sinning  regularly  in  fact.  But  they  would  be 
fearless.  They  would  strike  out  with  no  reserve  and 
if  Vice  turned  an  accusing  forefinger  upon  them,  they 
would  sacrifice  themselves.  The  chances  were,  how- 
ever, that  this  would  not  happen.  They  experienced 
the  inner  elation  which  comes  with  non-inconvenienc- 
ing confession.  Regardless  of  what!  they  were  in 
secret,  they  would  be  able  to  reveal  themselves  publicly 
as  men  sitting  in  judgment  upon  Vice,  as  execu- 
tioners of  Vice.  In  this  manner  their  material  lives 


300  GARGOYLES 

became  unimportant  accidents.  They  were  able  with- 
in two  weeks  to  enter  the  public  concept  of  themselves. 
Their  actual  selves  became,  in  their  own  eyes,  inferior 
and  irrelevant.  They  had  achieved  an  idealization. 

There  was  also  another  change.  Once  established 
in  their  own  eyes  as  Virgins,  like  Basine  they  were 
soon  under  the  hypnosis  of  headlines.  As  they  walked 
to  the  hotel  this  morning  they  had  entirely  rid  them- 
selves of  their  normal  individualities.  They  were  no 
longer  even  ordinary  virgins,  embarked  upon  a  vaguely 
scientific  or  social  enterprise.  They  were,  above  that, 
the  spokesmen  of  an  aroused  public,  the  dignified  con- 
tainers of  the  power  of  the  People. 

None  of  the  ten  with  the  exception  of  Basine  had 
given  the  actual  work  before  him  any  thought.  They 
had  not  prepared  themselves  for  the  task  by  study. 
All  of  them  were  serenely,  in  fact  belligerently,  ignor- 
ant of  the  scientific  thought  of  the  world  on  the  sub- 
ject. The  involved  disclosures  of  psychologists,  phil- 
osophers, economists  and  other  specialists  in  race 
ethics  were  part  of  a  childish  abracadabra  beneath 
their  consideration.  For  they  were  the  incarnated 
power  of  Tradition  and  of  Public  Opinion — two  grave 
forces  which  needed  no  guilding  light  from  such 
sources. 

This  power  buoyed  them  and  brought  a  stern  light 
into  their  eyes.  They  believed  in  the  People,  and 
therefore  in  themselves  as  Spokesmen.  Ten  shrewd, 
wire-pulling  politicians  whose  careers  were  identically 
darkened  with  chicanery  and  crude  cynicism,  they 
were  able  by  the  magic  of  faith  to  rise  above  them- 
selves. They  were  able  to  feel  the  nobility  of  the 
phrases  which  they  had  so  often  utilized  as  cloaks  for 
their  private  greeds  and  private  spites.  These  were 


GARGOYLES  301 

the  phrases  of  Democracy  which  proclaimed  to  an 
awed  populace  that  it,  the  populace,  was  Master  and 
that  its  will  was  a  holy  and  unassailable  force  for 
progress  and  piety. 

As  spokesmen  of  the  people  these  commissioners 
were  concerned  with  furthering  the  great  idealization 
of  themselves  which  the  people  worshipped  as  their 
god.  Reason  was  at  war  with  this  idealization. 
Reason  was  the  species  of  morbid  and  inverted  vanity 
which  inspired  man  to  disembowel  himself  as  proof 
of  his  stupidity.  It  grappled  with  his  illusions, 
crawled  through  his  soul,  hamstringing  his  com- 
placency. It  raised  insidious  voices  around  him,  woo- 
ing him.  To  denude  himself  of  hope,  faith  and 
charity — in  short  to  become  intolerable  to  himself. 

The  commissioners,  as  spokesmen,  turned  their  back 
upon  it.  There  was  a  happier  outlet  for  the  energies 
of  man  than  the  repudiation  of  himself  as  the  glory 
of  God.  There  was  the  unreasoning  struggle  for 
idealization — the  miracle  by  which  man,  seizing  hold 
of  his  boot  straps,  hoisted  himself  into  Heaven.  This 
struggle,  arousing  the  guffaws  and  sneers  of  reason, 
was  its  own  reward.  It  was  the  virtue  that  rewarded 
itself. 

The  perspiring  little  scene  in  the  hotel  ball  room 
was  a  startling  visualization  of  this  happier  struggle. 
Regardless  of  their  sins,  their  greeds,  hypocrisies, 
idiocies,  the  people  desired  to  see  themselves  as  in- 
carnations of  an  ideal.  This  ideal  had  been  carefully 
elaborated.  Of  late  it  had  taken  on  a  life  of  its 
own.  It  had  grown  like  a  fungus  feeding  upon  itself. 
Man  staring  at  the  heaven  he  had  created  was  be- 
coming awed  by  its  magnificence  and  extent.  More 
than  that  this  heaven  was  threatening  to  escape  him, 


302  GARGOYLES 

to  become  incongruous  by  its  very  vastness.  There 
was  danger  that  his  idealization,  fattening  upon  a 
logic  of  its  own,  would  become  a  bit  too  preposterous 
even  for  worship.  Already  this  idealization  pro- 
claimed him  as  an  apostle  of  virtue,  as  a  moralist  first 
and  a  biological  product  afterward;  as  believing  in 
the  credo  of  right  over  might,  in  the  equality  of 
blacks,  whites,  poor  and  rich;  as  a  sort  of  animated 
sermon  from  the  triple  pen  of  a  martyr  president, 
martyr  husband  and  martyr  Messiah.  Lost  in  a  diffi- 
cult admiration  of  this  heaven,  the  people  struggled 
in  the  double  task  of  keeping  the  idealization  of 
themselves  from  becoming  too  preposterous  and  of 
persuasively  identifying  themselves  with  their  image. 

The  result  of  this  struggle  was  apparent  in  the 
puritanization  of  idea  becoming  popular  in  the 
country.  A  spirit  of  martyrdom  was  prevalent.  Men 
and  women  were  enthusiastically  martyring  themselves 
— passing  laws  and  formulating  conventions  in  op- 
position to  their  appetites  and  desires — in  an  excited 
effort  to  overtake  this  idealization  of  themselves. 
Righteousness  was  becoming  a  panic.  The  Christ 
image  of  the  crowd  was  slowly  obliterating  its  reality. 
His  halo  was  running  away  with  man.  Overcome 
with  the  necessity  of  keeping  pace  with  the  artificial 
virtues  he  had  created  as  his  God,  he  was  converting 
himself,  to  the  best  of  his  talents,  into  an  outwardly 
epicene,  eye-rolling  symbol  of  purity.  There  was 
this  mirror  alive  with  his  own  God-like  image.  And 
he  must  now  be  careful  not  to  give  the  lie  to  the 
idealization  of  himself  created  partly  by  him  and 
partly  by  the  activity  of  logic. 

The  members  of  the  Vice  Investigating  Commis- 
sion entered  the  crowded  room  serene  in  tke  knowledge 


GARGOYLES  303 

that  reason  was  their  enemy  and  that  God — that 
mysterious  cross  between  public  opinion  and  yester- 
day's errors — would  vouchsafe  them  the  power  and 
keenness  to  cope  with  the  problem  before  them. 

They  were  innocent  of  intelligence  but  they  had 
faith  in  the  principles  of  their  country  and  the  princi- 
ples of  their  country  were  founded  upon  the  great 
truth  that  what  the  people  willed  must  come  to  pass. 
Today  the  people  of  the  commonwealth  of  Illinois 
willed  that  vice  and  immorality  be  abolished  from 
their  midst.  Therefore  it  must  come  to  pass  that  the 
ten  citizens  lowering  themselves  into  the  seats  be- 
hind the  table  were  ten  irresistible  instruments  ani- 
mated by  the  strength  of  public  opinion. 

For  several  minutes  after  they  had  seated  them- 
selves the  commissioners  remained  staring  with  dig- 
nity at  the  throng.  A  vague  and  pleasant  delirium 
occupied  their  minds.  The  Vice  Investigating  Com- 
mission had  assembled  and  the  business  of  removing 
the  blot  from  the  face  of  civilization  would  begin 
at  once.  The  commissioners  sat,  pompously  inani- 
mate, waiting  for  it  to  begin. 

The  spectacle  before  them,  the  thousands  of  eyes 
focussed  upon  their  little  group  at  the  long  table, 
slowly  awakened  an  uncomfortable  disillusion  in  the 
commissioners.  In  fact,  a  little  panic  swept  their 
minds.  They  had,  of  course,  discussed  the  issues, 
passed  resolutions  and  laid  plans  for  grappling  with 
the  situation.  But  all  these  efforts  had  been  part  of 
the  curious  hypnosis  which  had  overcome  them.  The 
sense  of  their  power  hypnotized  them  into  fancying 
that  their  star  chamber  babblings  were  in  themselves 
thunderblots.  The  sweeping  promises,  the  all-em- 
bracing statements  and  resolutions  passed  and  issued 


304  GARGOYLES 

for  publication  had  filled  them  with  an  exalted  sense 
of  success.  They  had  entered  the  ballroom  under 
the  naive  conviction  that  the  whole  business  had 
been  already  successfully  consummated.  They  were 
taking  their  seats  at  the  table  not  to  launch  upon 
a  task  but  to  receive  the  plaudits  of  the  public  for 
great  work  already  accomplished;  in  fact  to  reap 
reward  for  the  noble  utterances  attributed  to  them 
by  the  press. 

But  now  with  the  pads  of  paper,  the  sharpened 
pencils,  the  business-like  cuspidors  at  their  feet,  the 
ominous  wastepaper  baskets  under  their  hands,  the 
commissioners  faced  the  ghastly  fact  that  the  blot 
was  still  on  the  face  of  civilization,  untouched  by 
their  thunderbolts.  And  some  millions  of  people 
whose  delegates  were  staring  at  them  were  waiting 
excitedly  for  it  to  be  removed. 

It  occurred  as  if  for  the  first  time  to  the  com- 
missioners that  something  would  have  to.  be  done 
about  it.  Their  expressions  underwent  a  change.  A 
pensiveness  crept  into  their  heavy  faces.  A  bewilder- 
ment dulled  the  dignity  of  their  stares.  The  room 
was  unbearably  hot.  It  was  impossible  to  do  any 
work  in  such  a  crowd.  One  could  hardly  hear  one- 
self think  above  the  noise.  The  commissioners 
frowned  and  whispered  among  themselves.  Gradually 
a  nervous  jocularity  came  into  their  manner. 

"Well,  here  we  are.    All  set." 

"Hm,  I  think  we'd  better  call  some  witnesses." 

"That's  right.  Call  some  witnesses.  Where's 
Judge  Basine?" 

"Talking  over  there." 

"Huh,  why  don't  he  do  something?" 

Yes,  why  didn't  Judge  Basine  take  charge  of  his 


GARGOYLES  305 

flock.  It  was  his  commission.  The  papers  all  said 
it  was  the  Basine  Commission.  Then  why  didn't 
he  start  something.  Instead  of  gabbing  around  with 
reporters. 

"Good  God!  What  a  heatl  Hasn't  the  manage- 
ment provided  any  fans?" 

"Where's  a  bellboy?  We'll  send  him  after  some 
fans.  Think  a  dozen'll  be  enough?" 

"Nothing  doing.  Three  or  four  dozen  at  least. 
I'll  wear  out  a  dozen  myself  before  this  day's  over, 
believe  me." 

"Say,  ain't  that  right!" 

"Oh  Judge  .  .  .  Judge  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  what  is  it,  Senator?" 

"What  about  the  witnesses?  Are  we  going  to 
have  any  witnesses?" 

"Of  course.     I'm  just  getting  things  ready." 

"That's  right.  There's  no  rush.  Open  that  win- 
dow, won't  you  Jim?" 

"God,  what  a  mob.  Well,  we'd  better  do  some- 
thing, don't  you  think?" 

"Leave  it  to  Basine.  Got  a  knife,  Harry?  This 
pencil's  full  of  bum  lead." 

The  whisperings  and  delays  continued.  Basine, 
however,  began  to  recover  himself.  The  eager, 
focussed  eyes  of  the  room  were  slowly  electrifying 
him.  His  gestures  were  becoming  more  dignified.  His 
manner  acquired  a  definiteness. 

The  eyes  regarding!  him  saw  a  man  with  sharp 
features  and  an  imperious  expression  moving  with 
what  seemed  significant  deliberation,  examining 
papers,  studying  papers,  opening  papers,  extracting 
papers,  returning  papers.  Instinctively  they  felt  that 


306  GARGOYLES 

here,  centered  in  this  cautiously  dynamic  figure,  was 
the  celebrated  Vice  Investigation. 

Basine  arose,  a  gavel  in  his  hand,  and  pounded 
the  table.  The  noises  subsided  as  if  a  presence  were 
being  expelled  from  the  room.  The  hush  served 
to  illumine  the  figure  of  Basine.  The  eyes  waited. 
His  voice  arose,  definite,  impelling. 

"Fellow  Citizens,  the  Vice  Investigating  Commis- 
sion appointed  by  the  State  of  Illinois  to  determine 
if  possible  the  causes  of  immorality  and  to  remove, 
wherever  possible,  such  causes,  is  now  in  session.  The 
purposes  of  this  commission  need  no  further  explana- 
tion. We  are  assembled  here  in  the  name  of  the 
people  of  this  state  to  do  all  in  our  power  to  grapple 
with  the  problem  of  vice  and  its  many  auxiliary  prob- 
lems. 

"This  problem  is  today  the  outstanding  menace  to 
the  welfare  of  our  community.  Its  dangers  touch 
us  all.  The  immoral  man  and  the  immoral  woman, 
the  factors  which  contribute  to  their  immorality,  are 
our  responsibility.  This  is  no  sentimental  outburst, 
no  vague  uprising  but  an  organized,  official  investiga- 
tion with  full  powers  to  uncover  facts.  We  are  not 
here  to  dabble  in  theories,  but  to  deal  with  facts. 
And  for  that  purpose,  and  that  purpose  only,  we 
are  assembled  under  the  laws  of  our  state  and  the 
constitution  of  our  country.  The  first  witness  called 
will  be  Mr.  Arthur  Core." 

Applause  thundered.  Basine,  flushed,  sat  down. 
The  commissioners  on  each  side  of  him  breathed  with 
relief.  Something  had  been  started.  To  their  intense 
surprise  Mr.  Arthur  Core  actually  arose  from  one  of 
the  witness  chairs  and  came  forward.  Mr.  Core  was 
head  of  the  largest  department  store!  in  the  city. 


GARGOYLES  307 

Basine  with  an  instinct  in  which  he  placed  implicit 
reliance  had  summoned  him  first,  thus  abandoning  the 
plans  the  commission  had  decided  upon  in  star  cham- 
ber. It  had  been  decided  upon  to  save  up  the  big 
guns  for  a  climax.  Easiness  instinct  warned  him  as 
he  stood  on  his  feet  talking,  that  a  climax  was  neces- 
sary immediately — a  gesture  which  would  at  once 
reveal  the  power  and  fearlessness  of  the  commission. 

Mr.  Core  was  the  medium  for  such  a  gesture. 
Venerated  as  one  of  the  wealthiest  men  of  the  city, 
the  head  of  its  most  widely  advertized  and  magnificent 
retail  establishment,  to  hail  him  before  the  commis- 
sion and  belabor  him  with  queries  would  be  to  cap- 
ture the  confidence  of  the  public  forthwith. 

As  Mr.  Core,  accompanied  by  two  lawyers  and 
a  secretary  laden  with  ledgers,  advanced  toward  the 
table  a  sudden  misgiving  struck  Basine.  How  much 
would  the  newspapers  dare  print  about  Mr.  Core, 
particularly  if  the  cross  examination  placed  him  and 
his  establishment  in  an  unfavorable  light?  Mr.  Core 
meant  upwards  of  $3,000,000  a  year  in  advertising 
revenue.  Perhaps  he  had  made  a  mistake  in  calling 
him.  The  press  would  turn  and  fly  from  the  com- 
mission as  from  a  plague.  There  would  be  no  head- 
lines and  the  public  would  fall  away. 

Basine,  stood  up  as  Mr.  Core  approached.  He 
was  a  smartly  dressed  man  with  a  cream-colored  hand- 
kerchief protruding  against  a  smoothly  pressed  blue 
coat;  an  affable,  reserved  face  that  reminded  Basine 
of  Milton  Ware  and  the  Michigan  Avenue  Club. 
Poise,  suavity,  courtesy  exuded  from  Mr.  Core. 

"How  do  you  do,  Judge,"  he  said  with  a  bow,  "and 
Gentlemen  of  the  Commission." 

Basine  extended  his  hand  and  promptly  regretted 


308  GARGOYLES 

the  action.  He  had  caught  the  emotion  of  the  crowd. 
He  realized  that  his  instinct  had  not  betrayed  him. 

Mr.  Core  was  one  of  the  most  venerated  citizens 
in  the  community,  venerated  for  his  power,  his  success 
and  his  aloofness  from  his  venerators.  The  summon- 
ing of  Mr.  Core  to  take  his  place  and  be  cross-ex- 
amined by  the  Commission  had  sent  a  thrill  through 
the  crowd.  They  felt  the  elation  of  a  pack  of  beagle 
dogs  with  a  magnificent  stag  brought  to  earth  under 
their  little  jaws. 

Mr.  Core  was  rich,  powerful,  brilliant.  But  they, 
the  people,  were  greater  than  he.  There  he  stood 
obedient  to  their  delegated  spokesman,  the  fearless 
Basine,  and  gratitude  filled  them  as  they  noted  Basine 
was  a  head  taller  than  the  great  Mr.  Core,  and  that 
the  great  Basine  was  not  at  all  confused  by  the 
presence  of  this  famed  personage. 

Basine  as  he  felt  the  emotion  of  the  crowd  knew 
simultaneously  that  the  newspapers,  caught  between 
their  two  vital  functions — that  of  insuring  their  rev- 
enue by  respectful  treatment  of  its  source,  the  adver- 
tising plutocracy, — and  of  insuring  their  popularity 
by  the  fearless  advocacy  of  any  current  crowd  hysteria, 
must  follow  the  less  dangerous  course.  And  the  less 
dangerous  course  now,  as  always,  was  with  the  beagle 
dogs  who  had  brought  a  stag  to  earth. 

After  the  handshake  Basine  looked  severely  about 
him.  He  was  pleased  to  observe  that  his  colleagues 
were  non-existent.  They  sat  coughing,  sharpening 
pencils  and  gazing  with  vacuous  aplomb  at  objects 
about  them.  He  smiled  with  inward  contempt. 
Little  puppets  under  his  hands.  And  the  crowd  be- 
fore him — a  smear  of  little  puppets.  Even  the  all- 
powerful  newspapers,  even  the  mighty  Mr.  Arthur 


GARGOYLES  309 

Core — he  could  manipulate  them  because  there  was 
something  in  him  that  was  not  in  other  people.  A 
sense  of  drama,  perhaps.  But  more  than  that,  an 
understanding — a  vision  that  enabled  him  to  see 
clearly  over  the  heads  of  people  into  the  future.  He 
could  tell  in  advance  which  way  people  were  going 
to  turn  and  he  could  hurry  forward  and  be  there 
waiting  for  them — a  leader  waiting  for  them  when 
they  caught  up. 

A  curious  question  slipped  into  his  mind.  "Why 
am  I  like  that?"  And  then  another  question,  "Why 
am  I  able  to  do  things?" 

The  questions  pleased  him  and  as  he  followed  Mr. 
Core  into  his  chair  he  knew  that  the  crowd  had  noticed 
that  Judge  Basine  was  a  man  unimpressed  by  the 
greatness  of  Mr.  Core,  that  the  eyes  focussed  on  him 
had  thrilled  with  the  knowledge  that  he,  Basine,  was 
dressed  as  well  as  Mr.  Core  and  that  his  own  dignity 
and  sternness  were  more  impressive  than  the  poise 
of  Mr.  Core.  The  great  Mr.  Core  was  second  fiddle 
in  the  show.  Basine  was  first  fiddle  and  the  crowd 
was  thrilled  by  that.  Because  Basine  was  their  man, 
their  leader.  And  Mr.  Core,  venerated  to  this 
moment,  was  now  their  enemy.  Basine  wa.s  a  man  in 
whom  the  dignity  of  the  people  shone  out  more  power- 
fully than  the  prestige  of  any  enviable  individual. 
These  things  whirled  through  Basine's  thought  as  he 
turned  to  the  witness. 

"Mr.  Stenographer,"  he  announced,  "you  will 
please  make  accurate  transcription  of  all  questions 
and  answers  that  follow." 

A  naive  pride  filled  the  attentive  commissioners. 
The  Investigation  was  after  all  a  success.  Regardless 
of  what  happened  the  mere  fact  that  Arthur  Core  was 


310  GARGOYLES 

to    be    interrogated    on    the    subject    of    immorality 
among  working  girls,    constituted   an   overwhelming 
success.     The  conviction  which  now  delighted  them 
was  shared  by  the  thousands  in  the  room  and  by  the 
newspaper  men  scribbling  at  an  adjoining  table.     All 
present  felt  certain  that  so  dramatic  a  situation  as 
the   cross-examination   of  Mr.   Arthur   Core   by   the 
chairman  of  the  Vice  Investigating  Commission  was 
bound  to  result  somehow  in  the  instant  removal  of 
the  blot  from  the  face  of  civilization.     Basine,  clear- 
ing his  throat,  began  the  questioning. 
"Your  name?" 
"Arthur  Core." 
"Your  position?" 

"President  of  Core-Plain  and  Company." 
"That  is  the  retail  merchandise  establishment  in 
this  city?" 
"It  is." 

A  full  five  minutes  was  consumed  in  the  exchange 
of  profound  introductions.  This  concluded,  Mr. 
Core  was  informed  what  the  purposes  of  the  Vice 
Investigation  Commission  were.  The  information 
failed  to  impress  him.  Whereupon  he  was  informed 
that  he,  as  an  employer  of  thousands  of  girls,  had 
been  called  to  throw  light  on  a  vital  question.  First, 
what  wages  did  his  employes1  receive.  Mr.  Core, 
raising  his  eyebrows  and  looking  aggrieved  as  if  he 
had  been  asked  a  very  crude  and  tactless  question, 
replied  that  the  average  wage  was  $10  a  week  for 
the  young  women  in  his  employ. 

Did  he  think  a  young  woman  could  keep  virtuous 
on  $10  a  week?  Alas,  he  had  never  given  that  phase 
of  the  economic  system  any  thought.  But  if  his 
opinion  as  an  individual  was  worth  anything,  he  would 


GARGOYLES  311 

offer  the  philosophical  observation  that  wages  had 
nothing  to  do  with  immorality. 

A  cynical  observation.  The  crowd  frowned.  It 
didn't,  eh?  Lot  he  knew  about  it.  And  on  what 
did  he  base  this  cold-blooded  point  of  view?  Well, 
on  nothing  in  particular  except  his  common  sense.  In- 
deed! His  common  sense  I  Well,  well.  So  he 
thought  that  a  normal  young  woman  could  live  on 
$10  a  week,  feed,  clothe  and  house  herself  on  $10  a 
week  and  never  feel  tempted  to  earn  more  money 
by  sacrificing  her  virtue?  Alas,  he  had  not  thought  of 
it  in  that  way.  He  had  merely  thought  that  good 
young  women  were  good  and  bad  young  women  were 
bad.  And  wages  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  It  was 
human  nature.  What!  Human  nature  to  be  bad! 
Mr.  Arthur  Core  was  inclined  to  a  cynicism  which, 
fortunately,  the  great  minds  of  the  nation  did  not 
share.  Had  he  ever  sought  to  determine  how  many 
good  girls  there  were  in  his  employ?  No,  but  he 
presumed  they  were  all  good.  If  they  weren't  he 
was  sorry  for  them,  but  it  was  their  own  fault. 

Thus  the  see-saw  continued  while  the  room  grew 
hotter,  while  people  packed  against  each  other 
listened  with  distended  eyes  and  opened  mouths.  Thus 
the  commissioners,  recovering  from  their  panic,  began 
to  frown  with  importances.  And  Basine,  still  follow- 
ing the  instinct  in  him — the  sense  of  contact  he  felt 
with  the  crowd  and  situation,  played  another  trump 
card.  The  afternoon  newspapers  were  blazoning  the 
news  of  Mr.  Arthur  Core.  The  morning  papers 
would  need  an  equally  dramatic  morsel.  Basine  ad- 
journed the  session  to  reconvene  at  3  o'clock.  The 
crowd  remained.  The  heat  increased.  The  session 
reconvened.  It  was  businesslike  now.  It  was 


312  GARGOYLES 

running  like  a  machine.  No  more  delays  and  inde- 
cisions. 

"Call  Miss  Winona  Johnson." 

Basine  sat  amid  heaps  of  documents,  ledgers  and 
commissioners,  in  charge.  It  was  he  who  asked  the 
questions,  whose  face  was  the  battlefront  of  the  People 
versus  Vice. 

Your  name?  Winona  Johnson.  Your  occupa- 
tion? A  pause.  And  then  in  a  lowered  voice,  a  pros- 
titute. What  was  that? — from  Mr.  Stenographer. 
A  prostitute,  from  Basine  clearly  and  indignantly. 
Sensation.  She  was  a  prostitute,  this  yellow-haired, 
gaudy  creature  in  the  witness  chair.  She  had  her 
nerve.  How  long  have  you  been  a  prostitute,  Winona 
Johnson?  Well,  two  years,  I  guess.  She  guessed. 
As  if  she  didn't  know.  And  before  that  what  were 
you  ?  She  was  a  clerk.  Where  were  you  employed  as 
a  clerk,  Winona?  Where?  Oh,  I  worked  for  Core- 
Plain  and  Company.  There  it  was — the  sort  of 
thing  that  made  climaxes.  A  new  lead  for  the  morn- 
ing papers — a  new  thrill  for  the  tired  breakfasters. 
'Tells  Tragic  Story  of  Moral  Downfall."  And  then 
in  smaller  headlines,  "Former  State  Street  Clerk  Un- 
covers Snares,  Pitfalls  of  City."  And  then  photo- 
graphs; comparisons  between  Mr.  Core's  statements 
and  Miss  Johnson's  statements.  Mr.  Core's  picture 
and  Miss  Johnson's  picture  side  by  side  so  that  one 
might  almost  think,  unless  one  read  carefully  (and 
who  did  that?)  that  the  venerated  Mr.  Arthur  Core 
had  been  exposed  by  the  all  powerful  Basine  Com- 
mission as  the  seducer  of  the  pathetic  Miss  Winona 
Johnson. 

Through  the  weltering  afternoon  the  great  investi- 
gation progressed,  Basine,  unaided,  carrying  the  fight. 


GARGOYLES  313 

A  Champion,  an  Undaunted  One,  his  voice  growing 
hoarse,  his  eyes  flashing  tirelessly,  his  questions  never 
failing;  incisive,  compelling  questions  that  seemed  for 
all  the  world  as  if  they  were  slowly,  tenaciously  com- 
ing to  grips  with  the  Devil. 

A  great  day  for  the  commonwealth  of  Illinois.  A 
day  surfeited  with  climaxes.  Winona  Johnson  wept 
and  the  courteous  voice  of  Basine  pressed  for  facts. 
Here  was  a  mine  of  facts,  here  a  witness  who  could 
reveal  something  .  .  .  And  she  did  .  .  . 

That  will  be  all,  thank  you,  from  Basine.  Winona 
arose.  Eyes  devoured  her.  A  terrible  curiosity 
played  over  her  face  and  body.  Civilization  had  been 
stunned.  Everyone  knew,  of  course,  that  prostitutes 
sold  themselves  to  men.  But  to  so  many !  1 1  Hor- 
rible! A  revelation  to  make  thinking  men  think, 
thinking  women,  too. 

If  there  had  been  any  doubt  in  the  public  mind 
concerning  the  sincerity  of  the  Commission,  this  day 
had  removed  it.  Two  welfare  workers  and  a  second 
department  store  owner  concluded  the  bill.  The 
newspapers  spread  the  questions  and  answers  through 
the  city.  A  determined  light  came  into  the  eyes  of 
the  millions  who  read.  The  commonwealth  was  at 
grips  with  evil.  Facts  had  been  exhumed  in  a  single 
session  that  were  intolerable  to  a  civilized  community. 
A  hue  and  cry  would  be  raised.  Things  would  be 
done.  The  millions  reading  felt  this.  Something 
would  have  to  be  done.  Resolutions  would  be  passed. 
Thunderbolts  would  be  hurled  by  civic  bodies,  lodges, 
clubs.  The  thing  called  for  action,  action  and  more 
action.  But  wait  and  see  what  the  morning  papers 
would  have  to  say.  There  would  be  remedies  in  the 
morning  papers.  Things  would  be  done  overnight 


314  GARGOYLES 

by  the  morning  papers  to  put  an  end  to  this  iniquity 
— prostitution!!!!  And  there  could  be  no  question 
but  that  underpaid  workers  were  driven  to  lives  of 
shame.  And  the  dance  halls,  they  hadn't  gotten 
around  to  them  yet.  And  factories  and  hotels — wait 
till  it  came  their  turn.  They  would  all  be  grilled, 
quizzed,  flayed. 

Basine  made  his  way  slowly  through  the  throng. 
Tomorrow's  session  would  begin  at  eleven  o'clock. 
He  was  tired.  The  work  had  exhausted  him.  But 
his  head  felt  clear.  Without  raising  his  eyes  he  under- 
stood the  admiration  of  the  crowds  through  which 
he  was  moving.  They  were  repeating  his  name  among 
themselves  saying,  there  he  goes  .  .  .  that's  him  .  .  . 
He  had  understood  things  in  this  manner  all  day, 
without  giving  them  words. 

He  felt  at  peace.  He  had  gone  through  a  test. 
Now  he  knew  he  was  a  leader.  The  thing  of  which 
he  had  been  afraid  had  turned  out  to  be  easy.  He 
smiled,  remembering  his  colleagues.  Simple,  blunder- 
ing men  who  had  floundered  around  trying  to  horn  in. 
But  this  wasn't  the  private  banks  crusade,  not  by  a 
long  shot.  Ah,  that  was  playing  a  long  shot — calling 
Core  like  that.  But  it  had  worked.  Newsies  were 
yelling  around  him.  Extra — all  about!  About 
Basine,  of  course.  About  him.  Yes,  there  was  leader- 
ship in  him.  He  was  a  man  who  could  sweep  people 
along  with  him. 

The  crowds  were  going  home.  All  these  people  be- 
longed to  him.  Constituents.  He  smiled  pleasantly 
at  the  hurrying  figures.  It  was  hot  and  they  were 
perspiring.  Their  eyes  were  filmed  with  preoccupa- 
tions. But  what  would  happen  if  they  were  told 
suddenly  that  Judge  Basine  was  passing  them,  rubbing 


GARGOYLES  315 

shoulders  with  them?  Their  eyes  would  brighten. 
They  would  forget  about  the  things  that  were  worry- 
ing them.  They  would  look  up  and  smile.  Perhaps 
cheer. 

Day  dreams  lifted  his  thought  out  of  the  present. 
This  thing  was  only  a  beginning.  He  would  go  on. 
There  was  a  kinship  in  him  with  people.  The  memory 
of  the  day  lay  like  a  love  in  his  heart.  He  was  still 
young.  Years  ahead  of  him  and  he  would  end — 
where?  High  up. 

He  looked  around  and  noticed  he  was  walking 
toward  Doris7  studio.  Odd,  he  hadn't  been  aware 
where  he  was  going.  But  he  might  as  well.  He 
frowned.  She  would  ridicule  what  had  happened. 
Well,  that  was  all  right.  Her  hatred  of  such  things 
couldn't  wipe  out  what  was  in  his  heart  now.  He 
became  practical.  Think  of  tomorrow's  session.  But 
why?  The  details  were  annoying.  He  had  had 
enough  details  for  one  day.  He  would  take  care  of 
things  when  the  proper  time  came.  This  was  a  sort 
of  reward,  to  walk  and  dream.  As  for  the  blot  on 
the  face  of  civilization,  yes  that  would  all  be  taken 
care  of  at  the  proper  time.  But  the  important  thing, 
the  most  important  thing  was  Basine — high  up. 

21 

Schroder  looked  at  his  watch.  Late,  perhaps  she 
wouldn't  come.  Intellectual  women  were  always  the 
most  uncertain.  It  was  twilight.  Summer  bloomed 
incongruously  in  the  small  city  park. 

"She  probably  didn't  mean  it,  anyway,"  he  thought. 

Ruth  appeared  walking  calmly  down  the  broad 
pavement.  He  watched  her.  She  had  come,  but  the 


316  GARGOYLES 

business  was  still  uncertain.  Amorous  affairs  were 
one  thing.  Seduction  was  another.  He  liked  her,  of 
course.  But  what  if  she  had  notions  about  things? 
Love,  fidelity,  virtue,  marriage,  decency.  Oh  well, 
he  could  always  step  away  and  say  good-bye,  I'm  sorry. 

"Hello,"  he  said  aloud.     "You're  late." 

"I  wasn't  coming." 

"I  didn't  think  so,  either." 

She  was  one  of  the  kind  who  made  a  pretense  of 
frankness.  If  you  let  her  she  would  talk  about  sex 
till  the  cows  came  home,  as  if  it  were  a  problem  in 
algebra.  He  knew  the  kind.  Full  of  theories  .  .  . 

"Where  shall  we  go,  Paul?" 

"Let's  sit  here  a  while.     How's  his  Honor." 

"I  don't  know.    I  resigned  last  week." 

"Is  that  so?" 

"Yes,  after  the  Commission  adjourned  for  the 
summer." 

The  memory  of  the  commission  made  him  smile. 

"Goofy,"  he  said. 

She  nodded.  "But  Judge  Basine  is  made,  don't  you 
think?" 

He  took  her  hand. 

"So  you  left  him,"  he  smiled.  They  sat  in  silence. 
He  would  wait  for  her  to  take  the  lead.  She  began 
talking  as  the  park  grew  darker. 

"I  didn't  intend  coming,"  she  said,  "because  I  ... 
I  know  what  you  want." 

Her  voice  quivered  and  her  fingers  tightened  over 
his  hand. 

"But  I  came  to  tell  you  ...  I  can't.  I'm  not  being 
foolish  or  anything.  But — it  isn't  worth  it." 

He  looked  at  her  and  wondered.  The  invitation 
was  clear.  He  must  begin  pleading  now  and  making 


GARGOYLES  317 

love.     He  hesitated  because  she  had  started  crying. 
Tears  were  on  her  cheeks. 
She  was  remembering  Basine. 
"Don't,"  he  whispered.     "I  wouldn't  ask  you  to 
do  anything  like  that.    We've  talked,  of  course.  But 
that  was  just  talk.     Ruth,  I  love  you." 

"But  love  doesn't  mean  anything  to  you,"  she 
answered. 

And  the  answer  to  that  was  marriage.  He  hesi- 
tated. Tears  always  stirred  him.  Now  it  was  dark. 
He  placed  an  arm  around  her.  The  stiffening  of 
her  body  decided  him. 

"We'll  get  married,"  he  said. 

The  assurance  did  not  delight  her.  Marriage  was 
something  foreign.  But  she  stood  up  when  he  asked 
her  to  and  followed  him.  She  walked  along  thinking 
of  herself  as  if  there  were  two  Ruths.  One  was  walk- 
ing with  a  man — where?  The  other  was  thinking 
about  things.  But  there  was  little  to  think  about. 
If  it  had  been  Basine  instead  of  this  other,  it  would 
have  been  nicer.  Basine  was  someone  she  knew.  Paul 
was  a  stranger.  But  Basine  had  played  with  her. 
He  had  said  nothing  when  she  went  away.  Merely 
looked  at  her  and  nodded.  His  success  had  gone  to 
his  head.  He  didn't  want  her,  even  to  flirt  with  any- 
more. He  was  too  busy  .  .  . 

She  put  her  arms  around  the  stranger  and  wept. 
It  was  minor  tragedy.    There  was  nothing  to  weep 
about.     Nobody  cared  what  happened  to   her.     If 
there  had  been  somebody  who  cared  she  would  never 
have  met  him. 

Schroder  watched  her  and  sighed. 

"If  you  don't  love  me,"  he  said. 

"It's  not  that,"  she  answered.     She  was  forgetting 


318  GARGOYLES 

about  her  tears.  Her  close  presence  to  him  was  slow- 
ly preoccupying  her.  He  loved  her.  And  they  would 
be  married.  It  didn't  matter  much.  But  the  idea 
made  it  a  little  easier.  She  kissed  him,  timidly  at 
first.  And  then  with  passion. 

Schroder  grimaced  inwardly.  It  was  dark  and  she 
couldn't  see  his  eyes.  They  were  worried.  He  had 
been  in  love  for  a  few  minutes  in  the  park.  He  would 
have  liked  to  remain  in  love.  He  sat  before*  the 
window  thinking,  Why  did  women  insist  on  climaxes. 
Their  arguments  made  it  necessary  for  men  to  plead. 
The  culmination  was  a  sort  of  logical  gesture. 

He  walked  toward  her.  He  would  take  her  hand 
and  make  love.  ~  He  felt  sad  and  making  love  out  of 
sadness  was  always  an  interesting  diversion. 

"Ruth,"  he  whispered,  "do  you  love  me?" 

She  answered  by  embracing  him. 

"Always  the  same,"  he  murmured  to  himself,  "it's 


no  use." 


22 


The  children  were  asleep  and  Henrietta  was  read- 
ing. Basine  in  his  slippers  and  smoking-jacket  sat 
unoccupied.  Their  new  house  worried  him.  He  had 
not  yet  familiarized  himself  with  its  shadows. 

He  smiled  as  he  watched  his  wife.     He  was  going 
to  run  for  Senator  but  that  made  no  difference  to  her. 
He  was  a  husband  to  her,  and  everything  else  was  in- 
cidental.   He  thought  of  Ruth.    Her  name  no  longer 
depressed  him.    During  the  first  three  or  four  months 
that  followed  her  absence  he  had  felt  as  if  his  career 
had  ended.     There  was  nobody  to  succeed  for  any 
more.     Then  through  Doris  he  had  learned  that  she 
was  to  marry  Schroder. 


GARGOYLES  319 

The  information  had  cured  him.  He  had  been  de- 
spising himself  for  letting  her  go.  Now  he  was  able 
to  pretend  that  he  had  been  forced  by  her  virtue  to 
relinquish  her.  It  would  have  been  a  dastardly  thing 
to  do — ruin  her  and  prevent  her  from  marrying  and 
living  a  decent  life.  Her  marrying  vindicated  his  own 
virtue.  He  was  able  to  think  that  he  had  done  the 
right  thing.  Not  only  that,  but  he  had  done  the  only 
thing  possible.  She  had  fled  from  him  because  he  was 
a  married  man.  Then,  too,  she  probably  didn't  love 
Schroder.  Not  as  she  had  loved  him.  She  was 
marrying  him  broken-heartedly.  He  sometimes 
played  with  this  notion.  It  pleased  him.  His  sad- 
ness at  the  thought  of  her  in  another  man's  arms  was 
mitigated  by  the  two-fold  thought  that  her  heart  was 
broken  and  that  she  was  in  reality  embracing  mar- 
riage and  not  a  man. 

He  no  longer  desired  her.  He  was  too  busy  for 
one  thing.  Still,  things  were  different.  She  had  been 
an  inspiration.  Now  he  went  on  with  his  plans  and 
his  climb  without  feeling  the  excitement  that  had 
filled  him  during  their  year  together.  There  was  no 
one  in  front  of  whom  to  pose.  This  made  posing  a 
rather  thankless  business.  And  he  became  practical 
in  his  thoughts,  less  dramatic  in  his  lies. 

Henrietta  had  put  aside  her  paper  and  was  looking 
at  him. 

"Are  you  tired  ?"  she  asked. 

He  shook  his  head.  He  began  to  think  about  her. 
What  did  she  do  all  day?  Since  Ruth  had  left,  his 
desire  to  leave  his  wife  had  vanished.  He  paused, 
confused.  She  was  weeping. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  asked.  She  lowered  her 
head. 


320  GARGOYLES 

"Nothing,"  she  said. 

A  vivid  memory  hurt  him.  He  remembered  kissing 
her  for  a  first  time  in  his  mother's  kitchen  years  ago. 
It  seemed  now  that  she  had  been  alive  and  beautiful 
that  evening.  That  was  gone. 

"Has  anything  happened,"  he  asked  softly. 

Her  head  shook.  He  came  to  her  side  and  looked 
at  her.  He  felt  helpless.  What  was  there  to  make 
her  cry? 

"I  don't  know,  George,"  she  said  as  if  answering 
his  silent  question.  "Please  forgive  me.  I  just 
started  to  cry  for  nothing." 

"Worried  about  something?"  he  pressed.  He  felt 
guilty.  She  was  crying  because  of  the  things  he  had 
done.  But  what  had  he  done?  Nothing  wrong.  He 
had  put  the  wrong  things  out  of  his  life.  And  for  her 
sake.  Why  should  she  weep  about  that,  then?  He 
was  the  one  to  weep.  And  she  had  her  children. 
Her  father  was  alive.  He  remained  silent,  recounting 
what  he  tried  to  consider  anti-weeping  reasons. 

"Nothing,  George,"  she  answered.  "Fm  .  .  .  I'm 
just  getting  old." 

He  frowned  and  turned  away. 

Later  when  they  lay  in  bed  he  took  her  in  his  arms. 
She  had  apparently  forgotten  about  her  tears  and 
their  curious  explanation.  But  he  began  to  talk  to 
her. 

"Old,"  he  whispered,  "you're  not  getting  old. 
Don't  be  silly.  At  least  no  more  than  I  am.  I'm 
older  than  you." 

He  held  her  close  to  him  and  his  mind  embraced  a 
memory.  This  was  not  his  wife  he  held,  but  someone 
else.  A  vivacious,  happy  girl  ten  years  ago.  No, 
more  than  that.  Almost  fourteen  years  ago.  He  lay 


GARGOYLES  321 

remembering  another  Henrietta — a  charming,  de- 
lightful child.  He  had  never  been  in  love  with  her. 
This  he  knew.  But  the  knowledge  had  slowly  died. 
When  he  embraced  her  at  night  a  dream  obscured  his 
memory.  The  dream  was  that  he  had  once  loved  her, 
that  she  had  once  been  beautiful,  that  his  heart  had 
once  sung  with  desire  for  her. 

He  played  with  this  dream.  It  was  a  make-believe 
that  saddened  him.  Yet  it  made  the  moment  more 
tolerable.  Sometimes  it  even  brought  a  curious  hap- 
piness. His  dream  would  pretend  that  the  scrawny 
figure  he  was  holding  had  once  filled  him  with  ecsta- 
sies. His  dream  would  whisper  to  him  that  he  had 
once  idolized  her  and  that  once  .  .  .  once.  He  would 
lie  editing  his  sterile  memories  of  her  into  glowing 
once-upon-a-times.  And  when  his  kisses  sought  her 
cold  lips  it  would  be  to  this  dream-Henrietta  they 
gave  themselves,  a  Henrietta  who  had  never  been.  It 
was  sad  to  pretend  in  this  way  that  his  great  love  had 
died  and  that  his  beautiful  one  had  faded.  But  it 
was  not  as  sad  as  to  remember  when  he  kissed  her 
that  there  had  never  been  anything. 

He  felt  tired  when  he  left  the  house  the  next  morn- 
ing. The  business  of  preening  for  the  senatorial  race 
annoyed  him.  The  goal  lured  but  the  details  te  be 
managed  were  aggravating. 

He  started  as  he  opened  the  door  of  his  chambers. 
Ruth !  He  stood  looking  at  her  without  words.  She 
was  pale  and  there  was  something  curious  about  her. 
She  didn't  look  the  same. 

"You  look  surprised,"  she  smiled.  He  noticed  how 
spiritless  she  was.  "But  .  .  .  you  don't  mind  my  com- 
ing here,  do  you.  I've  been  trying  to  get  you." 


322  GARGOYLES 

She  turned  her  eyes  away.  He  had  finally  dis- 
covered the  change,  a  physical  one. 

"Well,"  he  exclaimed,  "I  hadn't  heard  the  good 
news.  How's  Paul.'* 

So  she  was  married.  And  had  kept  it  secret.  He 
smiled.  He  remembered  other  scenes  in  the  room. 
The  doors  locked.  Her  arms  around  him.  All  that 
was  over  now.  Before  her  motherhood,  even  the 
memory  of  it  seemed  less  certain. 

"There  is  no  good  news,"  she  was  saying.  "I've 
come  to  see  if  you  can  help  me." 

They  sat  down.  Basine  nodded.  Money.  Poor 
girl.  Schroder  was  always  an  ass  about  things. 

"He's  gone  away,"  she  went  on.  "And  .  .  .  and 
I'd  like  to  locate  him." 

"Who?" 

"Paul." 

She  covered  her  face.  So  he  had  deserted  her. 
And  she  had  come  back  to  him.  A  momentary  ex- 
citement entered  his  thought.  But  he  frowned  im- 
mediately. It  was  distasteful  to  think  of  what  might 
have  been  if  ...  not  for  this. 

An  amazement  came  into  his  eyes.  He  stared  at 
her  as  she  talked.  She  had  been  ruined  by  Schroder 
and  he  had  never  married  her.  And  when  she  had 
refused  medical  interference  he  had  calmly  left  the 
city.  He  listened  blankly  and  could  think  of  nothing 
to  say. 

"Oh  George,  you  must  help  me." 

Help  her!  He  must  help  her!  After  she  had 
lived  with  this  man  for  months,  giving  herself  to 
him!  He  stood  up  and  walked  down  the  room.  It 
was  like  he  used  to  do,  pace  up  and  down  in  front  of 
her. 


GARGOYLES  323 

He  wanted  to  talk  but  he  found  it  hard.  A  rage 
was  coming  into  his  mind  that  obscured  his  words. 
The  rage  continued.  Pausing  in  the  center  of  the 
room  Basine  began  to  swear.  His  voice  had  grown 
high  pitched. 

"Damn!"  he  shouted  at  her,  uand  you  come  to  me. 
Mel  You  bring  your  filthy  sins  to  me!  Damn  his 
dirty  soul  I  Yes,  you're  fine,  you  are!  Leaving  me 
to  go  with  that  chippy-chaser.  I  thought  ...  I 
thought  you  were  somebody." 

He  stopped,  his  fist  in  the  air.  She  was  walking 
away. 

"Ruth,"  he  called  after  her,  "listen,  wait  a  minute." 

The  door  closed  after  her.  Basine  stood  watching 
the  door.  She  would  open  it  and  come  back.  But 
the  door  remained  shut.  He  seated  himself  at  his 
desk.  Moments  passed  and  he  was  surprised  to  wake 
up  and  hear  himself  mumbling.  "The  dirty  skunk! 
I'll  wring  his  neck!" 

She  had  given  herself  to  Schroder!  Not  married 
him  .  .  .  The  part  he  had  played  in  her  ruin  forced 
itself  with  a  nauseating  insistency  into  Basine's  mind. 
His  memories  seized  him.  He  struggled,  but  the 
things  he  knew  leaped  out  of  hiding-places  and  as- 
saulted him.  She  had  loved  him.  And  he  had  loved 
her.  Life  had  seemed  marvelous  with  her  close  to 
him.  His  career,  his  day,  its  simplest  detail,  had 
been  colored  with  delicious  excitement.  But  he  had 
been  afraid  to  reach  out  and  take  what  he  wanted. 
It  would  have  meant  success,  happiness  and  something 
else — the  word  beauty  withheld  itself — it  would  have 
meant  these  things.  But  he  had  feared  possession. 
He  had  let  her  go  away  after  kissing  her  and  telling 
her  that  he  loved  her.  So  she  had  gone  walking  in 


324  GARGOYLES 

the  street  and  fallen  into  the  arms  of  the  first  man 
she  met.     It  was  plain. 

Basine  writhed  under  triumphant  accusations.  A 
torment  filled  him.  He  must  escape  from  the  accusa- 
tions He  pried  himself  away  from  his  thoughts  and 
took  his  place  on  the  bench.  Other  people's  troubles 
again.  Disputes,  wrangles,  testimonies — his  ears 
listened  mechanically.  Lawyers  were  pleading  with 
him.  Witnesses  were  stammering.  He  sat  with  a 
scowl  and  hunched  forward  in  his  chair.  His  lean 
face  thrust  itself  at  the  courtroom. 

Thoughts  too  intolerable  for  his  attention  whirled 
sickeningly  in  a  background.  Pictures  of  Ruth  in  the 
man's  arms,  of  her  surrender,  of  the  intimacies  of 
their  illicit  affair  forced  themselves  upon  him.  He 
loved  her.  uOh,  damn  him,"  sang  itself  darkly 
through  his  heart. 

There  was  one  mocking  intruder  that  raised  a  vocif- 
erous head.  "You  might  have  had  her.  Not  he. 
She  might  have  been  yours  if  you  hadn't  been  afraid." 
It  was  this  that  sauseated  most.  Not  Schroder's  vil- 
lainy, but  his  own  cowardice.  He  had  lost  through 
cowardice. 

The  day  dragged  itself  along.  He  had  recovered 
in  part  the  rage  which  protected  him  from  the  in- 
tolerable memories.  When  he  left  the  courtroom  it 
was  with  a  viciousness  in  his  step.  His  feet  stamped 
down  as  he  walked,  as  if  they  were  attacking  the  pave- 
ments. He  entered  a  saloon  several  blocks  from  the 
City  Hall. 

The  place  was  almost  deserted.  A  few  business- 
like looking  men  were  grouped  before  the  long  bar. 
They  were  laughing.  Basine  passed  them  and  a  voice 
called  his  name.  He  turned  and  saw  a  familiar  face 


GARGOYLES  325 

in  one  of  the  small  booths  against  the  wall.  It  was 
Levine,  the  newspaperman. 

"Hello,  Judge.     Come  on  over  and  sit  down." 

Basine  narrowed  his  eyes.  The  man  was  partially 
drunk.  His  drawn  face,  usually  pale,  was  flushed  and 
his  sneering  black  eyes  were  bloodshot.  He  sat  down 
opposite  Levine  with  a  greeting.  A  waiter  brought 
drinks. 

"What's  up,  Judge,  you  seem  rather  low,"  Levine 
laughed  quietly.  "The  world  been  falling  on  your 
nose?  Ha,  have  another.  Here,  waiter  .  .  ." 

They  sat  drinking,  the  newspaperman  lost  in  a 
mysterious  excitement  that  gathered  in  his  voice.  The 
excitement  soothed  Basine.  The  drinks  brought  a 
haze  into  his  mind.  He  became  aware  that  the  man 
was  talking  about  his  sister.  He  was  leaning  for- 
ward, a  black  forelock  over  his  bloodshot  eye,  his  arm 
thrown  out  on  the  table,  and  talking  in  a  languorous 
voice  about  Doris. 

"Drowning  my  troubles,  judge,"  he  was  saying. 
"It's  easier  to  drink  yourself  into  forgetfulness  than 
to  lie  yourself  into  forgetfulness,  eh?  And  besides 
you  grow  sick  of  lying,  eh.  Nobody  lies  more  than 
me,  and  I  know,  I  know.  But  it  ain't  my  fault — 
she's  gone  mad  about  him.  You  know  him — Lind- 
strum,  the  poet.  Been  mad  about  him  for  years. 
And  it  gets  worse  .  .  .  that's  all  that's  the  matter  with 
her.  He  ran  away  years  ago  and  she's  gotten  a 
phobia  about  people.  Because  he's  the  people's  poet. 
Ha,  she's  told  me  about  you,  George.  Got  an  idea  of 
making  this  man  Lindstrum  sick  by  showing  him  how 
rotten  people  are.  And  using  you.  See?  But  where 
do  I  come  in?  Nowhere  .  .  .  nowhere.  Just  gabbing 
for  years  and  I  don't  come  in  nowhere  .  .  .  Get  me? 


326  GARGOYLES 

This  damn  newspaper  drool  has  eaten  into  me.  .  . 
She's  the  only  one  I  wanted.  But  I  don't  come  in, 
see?  She's  mad  .  .  .  gone  mad  .  .  ." 

Basine's  thought  avoided  the  man's  words.  He 
sat  with  a  blissful  vacuity.  They  drank  till  it  grew 
night.  Basine,  as  if  recalling  himself,  walked  out. 
The  newspaperman  lay  across  the  table,  his  head 
asleep  on  his  arm. 

The  night  was  cool.  A  curious  impulse  to  let  go 
came  to  Basine.  He  would  go  somewhere  and  find 
women  and  noise.  He  walked  along  thinking  about 
this.  When  he  had  walked  for  an  hour  the  impulse 
was  gone.  The  haze  was  slipping  from  him.  He 
recalled  things  Levine  had  said.  Something  about 
Lindstrum,  the  poet.  His  mind  played  with  Lind- 
strum.  He  had  seen  him — where  ?  Oh  yes,  long  ago. 
That  was  before  he'd  become  famous.  Now  he  was 
a  great  poet.  Hell  with  everything.  .  .  Get  the  sena- 
torship  and  let  things  slide. 

He  walked  along  toward  his  home.  Henrietta 
would  be  asleep.  He  sighed.  The  night  was  cool. 
Everything  all  right  in  the  morning.  Now,  every- 
thing all  wrong.  But  in  the  morning — 

His  stride  quickened.  He  felt  half  asleep  and  as 
he  moved  over  the  deserted  pavement  he  began 

mumbling,  "I  love  you,  George,  I  love  you  .  .  ." 

i 

23 

Doris  was  ill.  The  doctor  had  telephoned  her 
mother  and  Mrs.  Basine  was  sitting  beside  the  bed 
holding  Doris'  hand.  A  man  she*  remembered 
vaguely  was  standing  in  a  corner  of  the  room  smok- 
ing. It  was  the  poet,  Lindstrum,  who  was  once  a 


GARGOYLES  327 

friend  of  Doris.  He  had  been  there  when  she  arrived, 
standing  by  the  window  and  smoking  while  the  doctor 
was  fixing  an  ice  pack  on  Doris'  head. 

The  doctor  had  been  unable  to  make  a  diagnosis. 
She  had  a  fever  but  they  would  have  to  wait  for  more 
definite  symptoms. 

As  the  twilight  filled  the  studio,  Mrs.  Basine  grew 
frightened.  She  thought  at  moments  Doris  was  dead, 
she  lay  so  still.  She  watched  the  half-closed  eyes 
anxiously.  Perhaps  Doris  would  die.  And  George 
was  in  Washington.  She  had  telegraphed  but  he 
couldn't  arrive  till  the  next  day.  She  sat  wondering 
about  her  daughter.  She  remembered  her  as  a  child, 
then  as  a  girl. 

"Changes,  changes,"  she  sighed.  Changes  that 
excited  one,  but  all  they  did  was  bring  one  nearer  to 
this.  She  was  thinking  of  death. 

"How  do  you  feel  now,  Doris?" 

No  answer.  The  burning  eyes  continued  to  .stare, 
the  hand  she  held  remained  limp  and  dry  in  her 
fingers.  Perhaps  it  was  nothing  serious.  Merely  a 
fever.  She  sat  nodding  her  head  at  her  thoughts. 
She  thought  of  how  her  children  had  grown  up  and 
gone  away.  Fanny,  George,  Doris,  Aubrey,  Henri- 
etta, Mrs.  Gilchrist,  Judge  Smith  and  the  grand- 
children. These  were  the  names  of  her  family.  They 
were  part  of  her.  Yet  while  the  rest  of  the  world 
grew  more  and  more  familiar  they  grew  more  and 
more  strange. 

"Does  it  pain  you  anywhere,  Doris?" 

No  answer.  Poor  little  Doris.  She  stroked  her 
face.  Life  had  used  her  differently.  She  felt  this. 
She  knew  nothing  of  what  Doris  had  done  or 


328  GARGOYLES 

dreamed,  but  the  staring  eyes  frightened  her  and  she 
understood. 

George  frequently  called  her  queer.  Yet  George 
was,  in  a  way,  proud  of  her.  He  used  to  seek  Doris 
out.  And  many  people  had  talked  of  her  as  a  very 
unusual  young  woman.  But  life  had  used  her  curi- 
ously, not  like  other  girls.  Perhaps  it  was  a  man. 
She  turned  toward  the  figure  in  the  corner.  He  was 
standing  holding  a  pipe  to  his  mouth.  What  if  it  was 
a  man?  Scandal.  Mrs.  Basine  sighed.  What  was 
scandal?  It  was  only  a  way  of  looking  at  facts.  She 
would  take  her  home  with  her.  Poor  little  Doris  liv- 
ing alone  in  this  place  and  sitting  here  night  after 
night  dreaming  of  things.  That  was  sad. 

"Listen  dear,  do  you  want  something?" 

No  answer.  The  doctor  said  he  would  be  back 
after  dinner  and  bring  a  nurse.  She  would  ask  him 
if  Doris  could  be  moved  and  then  take  her  home.  It 
was  growing  darker  in  the  room.  Someone  was 
knocking.  She  opened  the  door.  It  was  another  man. 
He  came  in  and  then  paused. 

"Is  Doris  ill?"  he  asked. 

Mrs.  Basine  nodded. 

al  am  her  mother,"  she  said. 

Levine  looked  at  her  and  introduced  himself. 

"You  know  Mr.  Lindstrum,"  she  added.  Levine 
stared  at  the  poet  in  the  shadows  and  said,  "Yes,  I 
know  him." 

"How  do  you  do,"  said  Lindstrum  slowly. 

Doris  reached  her  hand  up  as  Levine  approached 
the  bed.  He  took  it  and  she  whispered,  "Don't  go 
away."  She  tried  to  rise. 

"You  musn't  dear,"  her  mother  cautioned. 

"Oh  yes,"   Doris  voice  appeared  to   be  growing 


GARGOYLES  329 

stronger.  "I  want  to  sit  up.  Help  me,  Max."  He 
arranged  the  pillows.  The  ice-pack  fell  from  her 
head.  She  smiled. 

"You  haven't  eaten  anything,  mother,"  she  added. 
"Please,  there's  a  restaurant  around  the  corner." 

Mrs.  Basine  stood  up.  It  might  be  better  to  go 
away  for  a  while.  Despite  her  daughter's  momentary 
recovery  her  fears  had  increased.  She  felt  some- 
thing curious  about  Doris.  But  perhaps  it  was  just 
the  fever.  She  left  the  room  with  a  final  glance  at 
the  flushed  face.  Doris  had  always  been  strange,  but 
there  was  something  disturbing  about  her  now.  Her 
daughter's  eyes  watching  her  opening  the  door, 
chilled  her  heart  suddenly.  She  held  herself  from 
rushing  to  her  side  and  taking  her  in  her  arms.  She 
'didn't  know  why,  but  she  was  certain  there  was  some- 
thing strange  about  Doris.  She  walked  into  the  hall. 
Yes,  she  was  certain  something  terrible  was  going  to 
happen. 

When  the  door  closed  Doris  sat  against  the  pil- 
lows, her  white  face  turned  toward  Lindstrum  in  the 
shadows. 

"Did  you  hear  we  were  going  to  war,  Lief?"  she 
asked.  Behind  his  pipe  in  the  shadows  the  grey  faced 
figure  of  Lindstrum  nodded. 

"George  is  a  Senator,"  she  added.  "He's  going 
to  declare  war,  Lief.  You  remember  my;  brother 
George." 

"Doris,  you  musn't,"  Levine  whispered.  "Lie 
back,  please." 

She  covered  her  face  and  her  body  shuddered. 

"The  filthy  ones  are  going  to  war.  Come  closer, 
Lief,  I  want  to  see  you." 


330  GARGOYLES 

Lindstrum  approached  the  bed.  Doris  turned  to 
Levine. 

"The  pack  is  going  to  war.  Did  you  see  their  eyes 
shining  in  the  street,  and  their  mouths  gloating?  A 
new  terror,  eh?" 

She  threw  her  hands  into  her  hair  and  her  eyes 
centered  suddenly  on  Lindstrum.  He  was  standing 
over  her.  Doris  began  to  laugh  and  to  climb  out  of 
bed.  She  stood  up  barefooted  in  her  night  gown,  her 
black  hair  down  and  pointed  out  of  the  window. 

"Don't."  Levine  took  her  hand.  "You'll  catch 
cold." 

Her  eyes  were  lustrous.  Lindstrum  caught  her  in 
his  arms.  She  had  leaned  toward  him  as  if  she  were 
falling.  Her  body  was  vividly  hot.  He  held  her  and 
she  began  to  laugh. 

"Better  lie  down,"  he  whispered. 

The  laugh  grew  louder.  Her  hand  with  its  fingers 
extended  and  pointing,  wavered  toward  the  window. 
She  tried  to  talk  but  the  laughter  in  her  throat  pre- 
vented. She  hung  loosely  in  his  arms,  laughing  and 
waving  her  hands. 

"The  window,"  she  gasped,  "look  out  and  see !" 

"We  had  better  get  her  into  bed,"  Levine 
whispered.  Lindstrum  nodded.  But  Doris  pulled 
herself  from  his  hold.  She  stumbled  and  fell  to  her 
knees  before  the  window.  The  room  was  dark  and 
the  street  lights  threw  a  faint  glare  over  her  face. 
She  knelt  with  her  hands  to  her  neck  and  her  eyes 
swinging. 

"Look  out !"  cried  Levine.    Doris  screamed. 

"The  beast  .  .  .  the  beast!" 

She  had  thrown  herself  forward  with  the  shriek 


GARGOYLES  331 

but  Lindstrum's  hands  had  caught  her.  The  window 
glass  broke. 

The  two  men  carried  her  into  the  bed.  Her  head 
fell  back  on  the  pillow.  She  lay  with  her  eyes 
open.  Lindstrum  sat  leaning  over  her. 

"Doris,"  he  whispered.  Her  eyes  regarded  him 
without  recognition. 

"It's  'happened,"  muttered  Levine.  Lindstrum's 
hand  passed  over  her  forehead  and  slipped  down  the 
loose  hair. 

"The  fever's  gone,"  he  said  softly.  "Yes,"  he  re- 
peated,  "the  fever's  gone  now." 

Mrs.  Basine  returned.  Doris,  her  eyes  open,  was 
lying  as  if  dead.  Her  mother  rushed  to  the  bed  cry- 
ing her  name.  She  was  breathing.  The  fever  was 
gone.  Her  body  was  almost  cool. 

"She  was  out  of  her  head  for  a  while,"  Lindstrum 
whispered. 

"Talk  to  me  please,  dearest." 

Doris  sighed  and  looked  around.  They  made  no 
move  as  she  sat  up. 

She  left  the  bed  and  returned  from  a  closet  with 
a  wrap  over  her  nightgown.  They  watched  her  until 
her  eyes  turned  toward  them — expressionless,  dead 
eyes.  Mrs.  Basine  clasped  her  hands  together  and 
trembled. 

"We  must  call  the  doctor  at  once,"  she  whispered. 
She  went  to  the  telephone.  Doris  sat  down  in  a 
chair  near  the  window.  Her  head  sank  and  she  gazed 
out.  The  expressionless  eyes  grew  clouded.  Tears 
were  coming  out.  She  sat  weeping  without  sound 
while  her  mother  telephoned. 

"Something  has  happened  to  Doris,"  Mrs.  Basine 
whispered  into  the  telephone,  "please  hurry,  some- 


332  GARGOYLES 

thing  has  happened  to  her.  .  .  ." 

"Good-bye,  Doris/'  Lindstrum  spoke. 

The  white  face  of  the  girl  remained  without  move- 
ment. She  was  staring  out  the  window,  a  lifeless 
figure,  weeping.  He  approached  her  and  watched  her 
tears. 

Outside,  he  walked  with  his  head  down,  through 
the  streets. 

"She  knew  it  was  going  to  happen,"  he  murmured 
to  himself,  "and  she  wanted  to  see  me  again  before 
it  did."  His  heart  felt  heavy.  Doris  with  her  dead 
eyes  weeping.  Ah,  a  long  sigh.  Hard  to  remember 
things  that  had  been. 

"Knock  'em  over,"  he  whispered  aloud.  "Make 
something  .  .  .  make  something."  Deep  inside  him 
were  hands  that  pantomimed  despair.  People  in  the 
streets.  War  was  coming  to  them.  "Huh,"  he  said 
slowly,  "they  tore  her  heart  out."  Everybody  knew 
him.  Everybody  knew  the  name  Lindstrum.  It  was 
the  name  of  a  great  poet.  When  he  was  dead  Lind- 
strum would  stay  alive.  "Huh,"  he  whispered,  "I 
don't  know. '.  .  .  Sing  to  them.  Yes.  .  .  ." 

His  teeth  bit  into  the  pipe  stem.  Tears  came  from 
his  eyes.  He  walked  along  in  the  night  snarling  with 
his  lips  parted,  and  weeping. 

24 

The  war  was  a  noisy  guest.  People  shook  hands 
with  it.  It  sat  down  in  their  little  rooms.  It's  voice 
was  a  brass  band  that  drowned  their  troubles.  Basine 
found  a  curious  friend  in  the  war. 

Changes  had  come  to  him  in  the  days  that  followed 
the  scene  with  Ruth.  He  grew  cold.  His  heart  was 


GARGOYLES  333 

indifferent.  His  victory  in  the  election  had  sent  him 
to  bed  without  joy. 

There  was  no  longer  an  inner  Basine  and  an  outer 
Basine.  He  had  fought  his  way  into  the  current  of 
events  and  he  was  content  to  let  them  move  him. 
They  made  him  Senator.  They  moved  him  to  Wash- 
ington, provided  new  scenes  for  him,  new  faces.  He 
heard  of  his  sister's  collapse  without  sorrow.  She 
had  become  crazy.  To  be  expected,  of  course,  to  be 
expected,  he  said  to  himself  one  evening  as  he  sat 
writing  a  letter  of  sympathy  to  his  mother. 

The  thing  that  had  happened  to  Basine  had  been 
the  result  of  a  confusion.  He  found  himself  at  forty 
robbed  of  life.  Despair,  hatred,  disgust — these 
things  were  left.  He  turned  his  back  on  them.  They 
were  a  company  of  emotions  too  difficult  to  play  with. 
It  was  no  longer  possible  to  lie.  Ruth,  Schroder, 
Henrietta,  love,  hope,  intrigue  grew  mixed  up.  He 
emerged  from  himself  and  walked  away  from  him- 
self like  an  aggrieved  and  dignified  guest. 

He  sometimes  remembered  himself — a  distant 
Basine.  A  keen-faced  one  with  the  feel  of  leadership 
in  his  heart.  A  mind  that  was  alive  behind  its  words. 
He  had  done  and  thought  many  things.  But  now 
he  had  gone  away.  He  was  silent.  The  day  was 
no  longer  a  challenge.  The  change  carried  its  re- 
ward. It  seemed  to  bring  him  closer  to  people.  At 
least  he  found  a  certain  charm  in  talking  and  listen- 
ing that  had  not  existed  before. 

He  gave  himself  no  thought.  He  was  successful 
and  that  was  enough.  At  times  he  sat  in  his  new 
quarters  in  Washington  reading  stray  items  in  the 
newspapers  and  reciting  to  himself  his  achievements. 


334  GARGOYLES 

He  found  pleasing  identification  in  the  honors  he  had 
achieved. 

His  political  friends  talked  among  themselves. 
They  recalled  that  Basine  had  once  been  a  man  of 
promise,  a  man  alive  with  energies.  And  now  he 
was  like  the  others  in  the  party — an  amiable  fuddy- 
duddy.  They  recalled  the  sensational  figure  he  had 
made  a  few  years  ago  in  the  Vice  Investigation.  This 
seemed  to  have  been  the  climax  of  Basine. 

But  the  war  arrived  and  the  new  Senator  began  to 
emerge.  The  country  became  filled  with  mediocrities 
struggling  to  utilize  the  war  as  a  pedestal.  The  call 
had  gone  out  for  heroes  and  the  elocutionists  rushed 
forward. 

The  psychology  of  the  day,  however,  was  a  bit  too 
involved  for  these  aspirants.  The  body  politic  of  the 
nation  found  itself  betrayed  by  its  own  platitudes.  A 
moral  frenzy  began  to  animate  the  horizon.  But  it 
was  the  frenzy  of  an  idea  that  had  escaped  control; 
an  idea  grown  too  huge  and  luminous  to  direct  any 
longer.  The  idealization  of  itself  before  which  the 
crowd  had  worshipped  became  now  a  Frankenstein. 
The  virtues  of  America  had  gone  to  war.  And  the 
nation  looked  on,  aghast  and  uncomprehending.  The 
flattering  and  grandiose  image  of  itself  that  the  bete 
populaire  had  been  creating  in  its  law  books,  text 
books,  and  hymnals  had  suddenly  stepped  from  its 
complicated  mirror  and  was  marching  like  a  Mad 
Hatter  to  the  front.  A  swarm  of  guides  and  inter- 
preters had  leaped  to  its  side.  They  danced  around 
it  chanting  its  nobilities,  proclaiming-  its  grandeur. 
The  spirit  of  Democracy,  the  Rights  of  Man,  the  One 
and  Only  God — the  Golden  Rule,  the  Thou  Shalt 
Nots,  the  Seven  Virtues,  the  Mann  Act,  the  Hatred 


GARGOYLES  335 

for  All  Variants  of  Evil, — the  mythical  incarnation 
of  these  and  kindred  illusions — the  Idealization — was 
off  for  the  front. 

The  confusion  arose  when  the  nation  found  itself 
attached  as  if  by  some  gruesome  umbilical  cord  to  this 
crazed  Idealization,  off  with  a  Tin  Sword  on  its 
shoulder.  And  it  must  follow  this  Virtue-snorting 
monster.  It  must  lie  down  in  trenches  in  behalf  of  a 
Fairy  Tale  with  which  it  had  been  shrewdly  deceiving 
itself  for  a  century. 

But  while  the  elocutionists  fumbling  for  pedestals 
were  exhorting  the  nation  to  hoist  itself  by  its  boot- 
straps, to  become  overnight  a  belligerent  hierarchy 
around  its  God,  there  were  others  whose  spirit  raised 
an  authentic  battle  shout.  One  of  these  was  Basinc. 

He  appeared  to  return  to  himself.  The  Basine  he 
had  walked  away  from  raised  itself  amid  the  disgusts 
and  hatreds  in  which  it  had  lain  abandoned.  A  rage 
gathered  in  his  voice.  Eloquence  and  flashing  eyes 
were  his.  The  amiable  fuddy-duddy  playing  little 
politics  in  Washington  became  a  gentleman  of  war. 

The  horizon  bristled  with  gentlemen  of  war.  But 
the  terrified  crowd  casting  about  for  leaders,  as  the 
draft  shovelled  it  toward  the  trenches,  eyed  them  with 
suspicion.  There  must  be  authentic  gentlemen  of  war 
— men  above  suspicion.  Men  maddened  with  a  desire 
to  fight  and  destroy  were  wanted.  Basine  was  one 
of  these.  His  tirades  against  the  enemy  left  nothing 
in  doubt.  They  were  not  concerned  with  idealisms. 
The  enemy  must  be  destroyed,  he  began  to  cry,  or 
else  it  would  destroy  civilization. 

Huns,  he  cried,  vandals  and  scoundrels.  Gorillas, 
demons,  soulless  monsters.  His  phrases  drew  fright- 
ful caricatures  of  the  enemy.  His  orations  were 


336  GARGOYLES 

among  the  few  that  stirred  terror.  The  Germans 
were  not  enemies  of  an  ideal — not  a  rabble  of  Nietz- 
sches  at  theological  grips  with  a  rabble  of  Christs. 
They  were  Huns,  said  Basine,  barbarians,  fiends, 
hacking  children  to  pieces,  pillaging,  raping,  destroy- 
ing. 

This  was  a  language  the  nation  understood.  It 
contained  in  it  the  inspiration  to  heroism  and  sacri- 
fice. Out  of  it  arose  the  grisly  cartoon  which 
awakened  fear.  Terrified  by  the  possibilities  of  Hun 
domination  and  massacres,  the!  crowd  patriotically 
bared  its  bosom  to  the  lesser  horror — war.  It 
marched  forth  behind  its  idiot  Idealization  not  to  de- 
fend that  absurdity  but  to  save  itself  from  the  clutches 
of  massacring  savages. 

The  energies  which  came  to  life  abruptly  in  Basine 
focused  into  a  strange  passion  against  the  Germans. 
He  was  vicious,  intolerant,  unscrupulous  in  his  denun- 
ciations. This  established  him  instantly  as  a  leader. 

The  crowd,  casting  about  for  leaders,  seized  upon 
men  more  terrified  than  themselves.  And  upon  these 
abject  ones  who  raved  and  howled  from  the  pulpit, 
stage  and  press,  they  heaped  rewards  and  canoniza- 
tions. 

There  was  one  phase  of  Basine's  hatred  that 
offered  a  curious  explanation.  From  the  beginning  he 
devoted  himself  to  describing  the  hideous  immorality 
of  the  Huns.  He  loaned  himself  passionately  to  all 
rumors  celebrating  the  wholesale  rape  of  women 
committed  by  the  invaders  of  Belgium.  Deportations, 
well-poisonings,  child-murders  figured  extensively  in 
his  eloquence.  But  gradually  he  appeared  to  con- 
centrate upon  what  he  called  the  ultimate  horror — 
"fair  Europe  overrun  by  this  horde  of  seducers  and 


GARGOYLES  337 

immoral    blackguards."      Schroder    was    a    German. 

The  war  rehabilitated  Basine.  It  enabled  him  to 
destroy  Schroder.  The  complicated  underworld  of 
hate,  disgust,  disillusion  which  his  ludicrous  renuncia- 
tion of  Ruth  and  her  subsequent  betrayal  by  Schroder 
had  created  in  him,  was  the  arsenal  from  which  he 
armed  himself  for  war. 

He  had  lapsed  into  a  sterile  and  amiable  Basine 
in  order  to  escape  from  emotions  become  too  intoler- 
able and  too  dangerous  to  utilize.  The  murder  of 
Schroder  would  not  have  restored  him.  The  return 
of  the  woman  he  still  loved  would  have  been  equally 
futile.  Life  had  become  too  intolerable  for  Basine 
to  face  and  adjust.  He  had  permitted  himself  con- 
venient burial. 

On  the  night  he  had  gotten  drunk  with  the  news- 
paperman, Basine  saw  himself  as  he  was — a  creature 
misshapen  and  humorous — and  he  had  buried  the 
vision  and  fled  from  it.  To  sit  contemplating  an  inner 
self  become  a  grotesque  cripple  was  intolerable.  He 
sought  for  a  brief  space  to  transfer  his  self-loathing 
to  Schroder  but  Schroder,  the  man,  was  too  small  to 
contain  it.  Schroder,  the  war,  however,  was  another 
matter. 

Basine  unlocked  himself,  exhumed  himself,  and 
came  forth  with  a  yell  in  his  throat.  The  German 
army  was  five  million  Schroders.  He  hurled  himself 
at  them.  He  was  happy  in  his  rage.  A  sincerity 
hypnotized  him. 

The  Germans  were  not  only  five  million  Schroders. 
They  were  also  the  incarnated  nauseas  and  despairs 
of  Basine.  Schroder,  the  man,  had  become  for  him, 
illogically  but  soothingly,  the  cause  of  everything  that 
had  become  misshapen  and  humorous  inside  him. 


338  GARGOYLES 

Schroder,  the  man,  was  the  sand  in  which  Basine,  the 
ostrich,  buried  his  head.  Now  Schroder,  the  Ger- 
mans, Schroder,  the  World  War,  Schroder,  the  rape 
of  Belgium,  the  devastation  of  France,  offered  a  more 
hospitable  grave  for  the  misshapen  and  humorous 
image  of  himself.  To  destroy  the  Germans  became  for 
Basine  synonymous  with  destroying  the  things  inside 
himself  from  which  he  had  fled  helplessly.  The  de- 
struction of  these  things  consisted  of  giving  them  out- 
let, of  giving  them  voice.  His  hatreds,  despairs  and 
disillusions  arose  and  spat  themselves  upon  the 
Germans.  The  process  cleansed  and  invigorated  him 
and  launched  him  before  the  public  as  a  leader  to  be 
trusted,  a  hero  to  venerate  during  its  dark  hour. 

25 

The  company  assembled  in  his  mother's  home 
greeted  Basine  with  excitement.  He  had  stopped  over 
during  a  tour  in  behalf  of  the  Liberty  Loan.  Mrs. 
Basine  had  persuaded  him  to  attend  a  function  in  his 
honor.  He  was  late.  They  were  waiting  dinner  for 
him. 

When  he  entered,  a  sense  of  great  affairs,  of  world 
disturbances  came  into  the  room  with  him.  At  the 
table  the  talk  centered  around  him.  He  was  the 
superior  patriot.  Questions  were  fired  at  him — when 
would  the  war  end,  what  was  the  real  secret  of  this 
and  that  and  did  he  know  what  was  behind  the  latest 
note  from  the  President,  and  when  was  the  German 
offensive  due?  He'  answered  ambiguously,  offering 
no  information  and  exciting  his  audience  by  his  reti- 
cence. 

Aubrey  Gilchrist,  who  had  held  the  floor  before 


GARGOYLES  339 

the  Senator's  arrival,  listened  eagerly  to  his  brother- 
in-law.  Aubrey's  patriotism  was  a  bond  between 
them.  But  it  was  of  a  different  quality.  Aubrey's 
patriotism  was  founded  on  the  fact  that  America  was 
the  most  virtuous  nation  in  the  world.  He  devoted 
himself  to  a  campaign  among  his  friends  and  had 
even  spoken  publicly  a  number  of  times.  In  his  talk 
he  grew  eloquent  over  the  moral  grandeur  of  his 
country  and  hailed  the  altruism  and  honesty  of  his 
countrymen  as  a  light  that  illumined  the  world. 

Aubrey  had  overcome  his  impulse  to  publish  his 
father's  manuscript  under  his  own  name.  His  fears 
had  finally  triumphed.  He  had  utilized  his  decision 
in  a  curious  way.  For  months  after  determining  not 
to  commit  the  imposture  he  had  discussed  the  decision 
among  his  friends. 

"I  worked  a  number  of  years  on  it,"  he  explained 
simply,  "but  on  reading  it  over  I  feel  that  it's  not 
the  thing  to  be  given  the  public.  It's  a  bit  too  Rabel- 
aisian and  unrestrained.  Among  gentlemen,  yes. 
But  when  one  thinks  of  young  men  and  women  read- 
ing such  things  one  hesitates.  I  feel  too  that  I  can 
do  better.  Perhaps  in  another  year  or  so  I'll  finish 
something  more  worthy." 

This  explanation  had  given  him  a  pleasurable  emo- 
tion. It  had  coincided  with  the  inner  Aubrey — the 
Isaiah  who  thundered  in  secret.  He  had  gone  about 
elated  with  the  knowledge  of  his  honesty — not  only 
the  honesty  of  refraining  from  the  imposture  but  the 
honesty  of  sparing  the  public  a  work  likely  to  under- 
mine its  morals.  With  the  advent  of  the  war  Aubrey's 
elation  had  expanded  miraculously.  The  nation  be- 
came a  collection  of  Aubrey  Gilchrists.  He  found 
an  outlet  for  his  self  admiration  in  boasting  tirelessly 


340  GARGOYLES 

of  the  virtues  of  his  countrymen.  His  interest  in  the 
Germans  was  faint.  He  was  chiefly  concerned  with 
having  the  moral  grandeur  of  his  nation  recognized 
and  triumphant. 

Seated  opposite  him  was  Fanny.  She  smiled  when 
he  looked  at  her.  The  war  had  brought  Fanny  happi- 
ness. It  had  released  her  from  the  tormenting  of 
Ramsey.  She  turned  occasionally  toward  Ramsey  a 
few  seats  removed  at  the  table  and  spoke  to  him.  He 
had  changed.  He  sat  flushed  and  elated  and  took  his 
turn  at  denouncing  the  enemy,  at  avowing  vengeance 
and  prophesying  terrible  victories  over  the  Hun.  His 
anger  rivalled  Basine's.  The  curious  game  he  had 
played  with  Fanny  had  lost  its  interest.  He  had 
emerged  like  Basine.  Fanny  was  no  longer  necessary 
to  his  desire  for  a  sense  of  power — a  power  which 
convinced  him  of  his  manliness  and  concealed  from 
him  the  secret  of  his  inferiority.  He  had  transferred 
his  game  from  Fanny  to  the  Germans.  He  was  now 
tormenting  the  Germans.  The  news  of  their  defeats, 
the  hope  of  their  annihilation  inflated  him.  In  ad- 
dition, his  belligerent  air,  his  gory  threats  enabled 
him  to  establish  himself  in  his  eyes  and  in  the  eyes 
of  others  as  a  thorough  man. 

There  were  others  in  the  company — Judge  Smith, 
red-faced  and  glowering;  Aubrey's  mother  engaged 
in  excommunicating  the  Germans  as  socially  unfit  and 
outside  the  pale  of  her  sympathy  or  support;  a 
number  of  prominent  social  and  political  lights.  They 
discussed  the  war  with  animation,  fired  questions  at 
the  senator  and  ate  heartily. 

Dishes  clattered.  Servants  appeared  and  dis- 
appeared. Mrs.  Basine,  sitting  beside  her  son  listened 
to  him  proudly  and  grew  sad.  Her  son's  prestige 


GARGOYLES  341 

pleased  her.  But  the  war  saddened  her.  She  noticed 
that  Mrs.  Gilchrist  was  growing  old — too  old  to 
share  the  enthusiasms  of  the  day.  Yet  there  was  a 
comradeship  in  the  room  that  stirred  Mrs.  Basine. 
She  disliked  most  of  the  individuals  around  her.  But 
when  they  came  together  there  was  something  charm- 
ing in  the  way  they  talked  and  smiled  and  exchanged 
confidences. 

Mrs.  Basine  had  secretly  allied  herself  with  a 
pacifist  group  of  women  who  labelled  their  minor 
timidity  as  intellectualism  and  argued  with  violence 
against  the  major  timidity  identified  as  patriotism. 
She  had  a  horror  of  war,  her  imagination  seeing  her- 
self continually  suffering  with  the  soldiers  of  both 
sides.  A  similar  sensitiveness  had  converted  her  into 
a  vague  socialist.  The  misery  of  what  she  called  the 
masses  was  a  mirror  in  which  she  saw  a  possible 
image  of  herself.  She  subscribed  with  enthusiasm  to 
doctrines  which  promised  to  establish  justice  and  tran- 
quility  in  the  world. 

But  now  among  the  people  in  her  home  Mrs.  Basine 
noticed  an  enviable  optimism.  Some  of  them  were 
old  friends,  others  new  friends.  (But:  all  of  them 
were  alike  in  one  way.  All  of  them  seemed  wonder- 
fully excited  over  the  fact  that  this  war  ;was  going 
to  put  an  end  to  all  wars.  She  would  have  liked  to 
share  this  optimism.  But  her  intelligence  deprived 
her  of  the  solace.  Yet  she  was  able  to  feel  kindly 
toward  the  ideals  she  sensed  were  false.  They  were 
somehow  like  her  own  ideals — inspired  by  similar 
things. 

The  camaraderie  in  the  room  heightened.  This 
was  a  war  that  was  going  to  put  an  end  to  all  wars 
and  everyone  felt  happy.  They  talked  and  laughed. 


342  GARGOYLES 

Their  manner  seemed  to  hint  that  the  war  was  not 
only  going  to  put  an  end  to  all  wars  but  to  all  troubles. 
Yes,  the  Germans  vanquished,  victory  achieved,  and 
the  world  would  be  beautifully  straightened  out. 

They  identified  themselves  avidly  with  the  world — 
these  old  and  new  friends.  The  enemy  who  had 
dogged  their  monotonous  little  footsteps  through  the 
years — the  veiled  Nemesis  who  had  harassed  them 
and  filled  them  with  helpless,  futile  hatreds,  tripped 
them  up  and  robbed  them  at  every  turn — this  enemy 
was  at  last  unmasked.  He  was  identified  now.  He 
was  their  troubles — their  defeats.  And  they  had 
him  out  in  the  open  now  where  they  could  shout  battle 
cries  and  leap  upon  him.  He  was  the  Germans. 

Mrs.  Basine,  groping  for  an  understanding  of  the 
elation  among  her  guests  and  desiring  to  share  it, 
thought  of  her  grandchildren.  She  remembered 
George  when  he  was  no  older  than  his  son.  This 
memory  seemed  to  give  the  lie  to  the  excitement  in 
the  room.  She  wondered  why.  She  remembered 
Fanny  when  she  was  a  girl.  And  Henrietta  long  ago. 
Henrietta  was  smiling  quietly  at  her  husband — a 
faded  matron,  scrawny,  silent.  And  Doris  was  up- 
stairs, weeping  perhaps.  She  had  taken  Doris  out 
of  the  sanitarium  to  care  for  her  at  home.  The 
doctor  said  melancholia.  She  might  be  cured  if 
something  could  be  found  to  interest  her.  But  there 
was  nothing.  She  sat  wide-eyed  and  morose  through 
the  day,  her  hands  listless  and  waited  till  night  came 
and  sleep.  Her  skin  was  yellow  and  there  were  little 
glints  in  her  eyes  as  if  they  were  peering  out  of  the 
dark. 

Senator  Basine  laughed  at  the  sally  of  a  pretty 
woman.    The  table  joined  his  laughter.    The  senator 


GARGOYLES  343 

was  an  inspiration.  His  manner  was  forceful,  his 
words  direct.  When  he  listened  his  head  remained 
flung  back.  When  he  talked  he  lowered  his  head  and 
raised  his  eyes.  There  was  an  anger  in  him  that  awed. 
It  played  behind  his  words. 

uYou're  right,  George. "  Aubrey  answered  a  re- 
mark Basine  had  made.  "I  agree  with  you  entirely. 
But  after  all,  the  purposes  of  this  war  are  more  than 
victory  over  an  enemy.  The  victory  over  our- 
selves— " 

Aubrey's  words  were  lost  in  the  racket  of  rising 
diners.  The  eating  was  over.  The  guests  filed  into 
the  library.  Henrietta  slipped  her  hand  through  her 
husband's  arm.  She  remembered  vaguely  the  after- 
noon in  the  Basine  library  when  George  Basine  had 
asked  her  to  marry  him.  No, — it  was  in  the  kitchen. 
She  would  have  liked  to  talk  about  it.  But  this  was 
no  time  to  mention  such  things.  She  sat  down  and 
listened  to  the  excited  remarks  of  the  guests.  There 
was  an  interruption.  Aubrey,  at  the  window,  raised 
his  voice. 

"Look  here,'1  he  exclaimed,  "soldiers." 

The  company  crowded  to  the  front  of  the  room. 
Men  in  civilian  clothes  carrying  small  bundles  over 
their  shoulders  were  marching  four  abreast  down  the 
center  of  the  street. 

"Entraining  for  war,  by  God!"  said  Ramsey. 

They  watched  in  silence.  Soldiers  going  to  war! 
There  was  something  incongruous  about  that.  A 
vague  feeling  of  surprise  and  discomfort  held  the 
watchers.  Men  who  would  in  a  short  time  be  lying 
in  trenches,  shooting1  with  guns,  killing  other  men. 
And  they  felt  curiously  out  of  touch  with  the 
marchers,  as  if  the  enemy  they  had  been  denouncing 


344  GARGOYLES 

at  the  table  and  vilifying  throughout  their  day  were 
someone  not  so  far  away  as  France.  As  if  these 
marching  men  in  the  street  were  being  sent  to  the 
wrong  address. 

26 

Basine  hurried  in  the  dark  street.  His  mother  and 
Henrietta  stood  in  the  doorway  watching  him.  He 
carried  a  suitcase  and  had  promised  to  write  fre- 
quently. The  Liberty  Loan  tour  had  cut  short  his 
visit.  He  was  walking  to  catch  his  train  at  the  neigh- 
borhood station  a  few  blocks  away. 

As  he  turned  the  corner,  Basine  paused.  Someone 
had  called  his  name.  He  looked  around  and  saw  a 
man  standing  under  the  street  lamp. 

"Hello  George.     How  are  you?" 

The  man  held  out  his  hand  and  Basine,  taking  it, 
studied  him  for  a  moment.  Keegan.  Poor  old  Hugh 
Keegan.  Basine  smiled. 

"Well,  well,"  he  exclaimed.  "What  are  you  doing 
around  here,  Hugh?" 

They  stood  shaking  hands.  Basine  noticed  the 
furtive,  shabby  air  of  his  old  friend.  He  hadn't  seen 
or  heard  of  Keegan  or  thought  of  him  for  years.  It 
was  strange  to  meet  him  like  this,  walking  in  a  street. 

UI  live  down  the  street  a  ways,"  Keegan  answered. 
An  almost  womanish  shyness  was  in  his  manner. 
"Been  hearing  and  reading  a  lot  about  you,  George." 
He  lowered  his  voice.  "You  sure  made  good." 

Basine  smiled  deprecatingly. 

"Walking  my  way,  Hugh?"  he  inquired.  "Going 
to  the  train."  He  felt  nervous.  Keegan  was  like 
meeting  yesterdays. 


GARGOYLES  345 

"Yes,"  said  Kecgan. 

They  walked  along.  Basine  felt  his  exhuberance 
leaving  him.  A  curious  desire  to  apologize  to  Keegan 
took  hold  of  him.  But  for  what?  Because  Keegan 
looked  shabby.  Keegan  acted  frightened  and  ashamed 
of  something. 

"We  used  to  have  some  good  times  together, 
George." 

The  man  was  impossibly  wistful.  Like  a  beggar 
asking  something — demanding  something. 

"Yes,"  said  Basine.  This  Keegan  .  .  .  this  Keegan. 
He  looked  at  him  out  of  the  corners  of  his  eyes. 
Shabby,  furtive,  blond-faced,  tired. 

"What  have  you  been  doing,  Hugh?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  didn't  you  hear,"  Keegan  answered.  His 
voice  grew  more  deferential.  He  began  to  talk  in  an 
apologetic  murmur. 

"My  wife  died,"  he  apologized.  "I  got  married, 
you  know,  four  years  ago.  Four  years  this  coming 
November.  We  went  to  a  picnic  last  June  and  Helen 
ate  something." 

Keegan's  voice  sank  to  a  confidential  and  still  apolo- 
getic whisper. 

"About  two  nights  after,"  he  added,  "she  died." 

Basine  looked  at  him  and  saw  tears  in  his  eyes. 
Keegan  had  married  somebody  and  she  had  died. 
This  had  happened  to  Keegan.  Basine  grew  nervous. 

"Awf'ly  glad  to  have  seen  you  again,  Hugh,"  he 
said  after  a  pause.  "Am  sorry  to  hear  about  it.  We 
must  get  together  sometime.  I  think  I'll  have  to 


run." 


They  shook  hands  and  Basine  hurried;  on.  He 
was  aware  of  Keegan  looking  after  him.  A  vacuous- 
faced  Keegan  with  tears  in  his  eyes.  A  Keegan  who 


346  GARGOYLES 

had  found  something  and  lost  it.  What  kind  of  a 
woman  could  have  loved  Keegan?  What  kind  .  .  . 
what  kind  .  .  .  poor  Hugh.  He  had  been  young  once. 
Now  it  was  all  over.  Basine  sighed.  Keegan  sad- 
dened. Keegan  was  like  yesterdays.  He  started  to 
walk  faster.  He  began  to  run,  the  suitcase  thumping 
against  his  leg. 

"I'll  miss  the  train,"  he  assured  himself  furtively 
and  ran. 

But  there  was  plenty  of  time  for  the  train.  Another 
fifteen  minutes.  He  was  running  for  something  else. 
Yes,  he  was  running  away  from  Keegan — from  the 
vacuous,  shabby  figure  of  Keegan  that  stood  weeping 
behind  him.  An  oath  throbbed  in  his  mind. 

"Damn  .  .  ."  he  muttered.  The  word  stopped  him. 
He  walked  the  rest  of  the  way  to  the  station.  A 
sadness  darkened  him.  He  was  sad,  impossibly  sad, 
as  if  his  heart  were  breaking.  Because  Keegan  had 
found  something  and  lost  it.  Because  his  old  friend 
Hugh  had  started  to  cry.  .  .  "Poor  Hughie,"  he 
murmured. 

THE   END 


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